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1.0 


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fitt    |||||Z2 

m 


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1.25      1.4 

1.6 

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/}. 


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'cS 


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Photographic 

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illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

/ 


/ 


PAULINE  ARCHER. 


/ 


,^,^ 


ANNA   T/^SADLIER. 

PS 


New  York,  Cincinnati,  Chicago: 


OOPYRiaHT.   1889,  BY  BBMZIGKR  BROTHB|||. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
Paulinb ^  ^^""^ 

CHAPTER  11. 
Pauline's  Fatheb <* 

10 

CHAPTER  IH. 
LiTTLK  Mabt  Kelly oft 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Ak  Unexpected  Pleasure ^ 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Afternoon  at  the  Park  aa 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Same  Story  Differently  Told sg 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Little  Mary's  Last  Visit a» 

0 


•J 


*  Contents, 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come ^73 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Pauline  Gobs  Visiting g^ 

CHAPTER  X. 
Pauline's  Cousins gg 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's 108 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  Journey U^ 

CHAPTER  XIIL 
Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright j26 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  New  Playmate ^^^ 

CHAPTER  XV. 
A  Delightful  Excursion 143 

CHAPTER  XVL 
An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell 153 

CHAPTER  XVn.  ^ 

Conclusion.    Pauline  at  Home 163 


PAULIITE  ARCHER. 


CHAPTER  I. 


PAULINE. 


Pauline  had  been  the  daintiest  of  babies. 
When  she  had  been  taken  out  in  her  baby- 
carriage,  the  passers-by  had  noted  her  big  blue 
eyes  and  yellow  hair  with  lively  admiration. 
In  the  second  stage  of  her  life's  journey, 
when  her  uncertain  little  feet  had  trodden  the 
pavement,  she  was  still  noticeable  for  a  dain- 
tiness of  form,  feature,  and  dress,  surrounding 
her  like  an  atmosphere.  From  the  very  first 
she  was  upright  in  her  carriage,  while  her 
blue  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  onward  and 
upward  into  some  fairer  country. 

At  the  age  of  twelve  she  was  still  what  the 
servants  and  other  people  of  the  same  class 

7 


M'i 

H 


8 


Pauline. 


who  came  in  contact  with  her  emphatically 
called  "  a  little  lady."  Her  parents  had  taken 
up  their  abode  in  a  neighborhood  which,  with- 
out being  precisely  fashionable,  was  very 
genteel — one  of  those  up-town  streets  of  New 
York  where  there  is  a  quietude  in  the  midst 
of  adjacent  bustle,  and  where  the  noisy  thor- 
oughfares at  either  end  in  no  wise  disturb  the 
peace  which  reigns  in  the  middle  of  the  block. 

On  sunny  mornings  one  side  of  the  street 
was  in  a  blaze  of  glory,  while  the  other  was 
overshadowed  by  the  great,  dark,  brown-stone 
houses.  In  the  glory  of  this  sunshine  Pauline 
was  often  seen  to  walk,  in  the  neatest  of 
frocks,  with  spotless  collar,  or  a  frill  at  her 
throat  and  wrists,  with  carefully  brushed  shin- 
ing hair,  and  hands  white,  with  pink-tipped 
nails.  Sometimes  she  carried  a  doll;  but  about 
the  time  when  this  story  opens,  when  the 
long,  hot  summer  was  soon  to  give  way  to 
autumn  and  Pauline  was  about  twelve  years 
old,  she  began  to  have  misgivings.  Perhaps 
a  great  girl  of  her  age  should  no  longer  carry 
a  doll. 

Still  she  was  very,  very  loath  to  part  with 
this  cherished  companion  of  babyhood,  and 
her  big  blue  eyes  looked  sadly  down  upon  its 


Pauline. 


9 


Bomewhat  faded  garments  and  somewhat  bat- 
tered waxen  face.  She  began  to  realize  that 
the  time  for  such  things  was  nearly  over  and 
that  she  had  almost  reached  the  parting  of  the 
wa3's.  A  tear  sometimes  forced  its  way  down 
her  cheeks,  falling  upon  her  dainty  frock,  ai* 
she  thought  of  the  desolation  in  which  the 
doll  would  some  day  be  left,  and  how  lonely 
she  would  then  be. 

She  could  not  always  confide  her  thoughts 
to  any  one,  for  Pauline's  mother  was  an  in- 
valid whom  she  could  see  only  at  intervals, 
and  her  father  was  very  busy.  But  she  kept 
them  in  her  own  mind,  some  very  curious 
little  conceits,  as  she  played  about  in  the  sun- 
shine, sometimes  skipping,  sometimes  run- 
ning very  fast,  with  a  deer-like  swiftness  and 
lightness,  and  sometimes  pacing  up  and  down 
in  her  slow  and  thoughtful  way. 

She  did  not  know  much  of  the  actual  chil- 
dren of  the  neighborhood.  Many  of  them 
went  to  school,  so  that  she  rarely  saw  them. 
But  one  of  her  greatest  trials  was  the  oc- 
casional incursion  from  some  of  the  avenues, 
far  west,  of  a  horde  of  street-boys,  who  perse- 
cuted her  with  unwelcome  attentions,  saluting 
her  with  a  variety  of  shouts: 


1 


10 


Pauline. 


"  There  goes  Miss  Proudie  !  Say,  look  at 
the  big  baby  with  he^  doll.  Ain't  she  a 
daisy  ! " 

The  little  girl  never  appeared  to  take  any 
notice  of  these  proceedings.  She  would  not 
turn  her  head  to  look  at  her  tormentors;  and 
when  she  encountered  them,  as  they  hopped 
about  in  front  of  her  mockingly,  she  only  let 
her  eyes  rest  upon  them,  not  angrily  nor 
haughtily,  but  only  gravely  and  wonderingly. 
But  it  was  their  taunts  that  first  made  her 
hesitate  about  bringing  out  her  beloved  doll, 
to  whom  she  used  to  apologize  in  her  quaint 
way  for  having  to  leave  it  at  home. 

Once  she  confided  her  difficulties  with  these 
street  arabs  to  her  former  nurse,  Rebecca,  who 
still  in  great  measure  had  the  care  of  her. 

"  And  why  don't  you  tell  them  to  hold  their 
saucy  tongues  ?  "  asked  that  worthy  woman 
indignantly. 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  ! "  said  Pauline,  elevating 
her  brows  till  '^ey  met,  in  her  horror  at  the 
idea.  "  I  never  speak  to  any  one  in  the  street; 
Fm  too  much  ashamed." 

"  Well,  I  guess  if  I  go  out  to  them  I'll  make 
some  of  them  ashamed,"  said  the  nurse,  re- 
treating into  her  own  room,  with  a  sniff.    She 


■^. 


"1 


Pauline. 


11 


was  usually  occupied  now  in  sewing,  as  her 
duties  with  regard  to  Pauline  were  very  light. 
The  existence  of  Rebecca  became  in  some  way 
known  to  Pauline's  enemies,  who  saluted  her 
with  new  taunts: 

"Miss  Proudie's  got  a  nurse,"  they  cried. 
"  Oh,  a  big  girl  like  that  with  a  nurse  ! " 

Pauline  walked  slowly  up  and  down  once 
or  twice,  as  if  to  show  *^hat  she  was  not  so 
easily  driven  from  the  fe id, never  looking  tow- 
ards the  Eighth  A^.(  uue  contir.j^ent,  some  of 
whom  were  astride  the  railing  of  a  nei^rh bor- 
ing stoop.  Then  sho  passed  slowly  up,  and 
sat  down  on  the  top  step,  near  her  own  door, 
where  the  sunshine  enfolded  her  as  with  a 
glory.  She  was  feeling  very  lonely,  for  her 
little  heart  had  failed  her  when  she  ihous:ht 
of  taking  out  her  doll.  It  would  only  expose 
her  to  new  jeers. 

The  boys,  tired  of  their  sport,  presently  ran 
away,  and  Pauline  went  into  the  house  to  get 
some  crumbs  for  a  tame  pigeon  who  came 
from  a  neighboring  house  every  day  to  be  fed 
and  petted  by  the  little  maiden.  His  feathers 
glimmered  in  the  morning  light,  and  Pauline 
stroked  them  gently  with  her  delicate  fingera 
as  she  gave  him  pieces  of  bread. 


12 


Pauline. 


**  I  wonder  if  pigeons  are  ever  thinking  of 
anything,"  she  said  to  herself  reflectively. 
"  This  one  must  remember  that  he  gets  bread 
here  or  he  wouldn't  come.  If  I  didn't  give 
him  any,  perhaps  he  wouldn't  come  any 
more." 

Pauline  often  held  curious  conversations 
with  her  nurse,  who  was  a  Presbyterian.  She 
was  fond  of  Pauline  in  her  own  way,  and  the 
little  girl  from  long  habit  was  much  attached 
to  her. 

"  Rebecca,"  said  Pauline  to  her  in  the 
nursery — it  was  the  evening  of  that  very  day 
when  the  street-boys  had  reproached  her  with 
having  a  nurse — "you  don't  like  Holy 
Mary  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  growled  Re- 
becca, who  affected  to  be  very  busy  searching 
in  the  bureau  for  something.  She  had  never 
spoken  of  religion  to  the  child,  as  Mrs.  Archer 
had  made  this  an  express  condition  of  her  re- 
maining after  Pauline  reached  the  age  of  rea- 
son. 

"  Rebecca,"  continued  Pauline  solemnly, 
"  if  you  go  to  heaven,  you'll  have  to  see  her 
tip  there." 

"  Hurry,  now,  and  get  undressed."  said  the 


■■■aii.,jiii|ij||!.|i|l1il»Bi'i 


Pauline. 


m 


nurse,  who  was  anxious  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. 

But  Pauline  was  in  an  argumentative  mood. 

"  I'm  afraid  perhaps  you  won't  go  to  heaven 
at  all,"  she  said,  "  because  you  never  go  to 
Confession." 

"You're  the  plaguiest  child,"  said  the 
nurse,  "  talking  about  sich  things  when  you 
ought  to  be  asleep." 

"It  would  be  awful  to  go  into  hell-fire," 
said  the  child.  This  was  a  quaint  expression 
which  she  had  picked  up  from  the  nurse  her- 
self.   "  So  you'd  better  go  to  Confession." 

With  this  parting  shot,  Pauline  knelt  down 
to  say  her  prayers,  and  the  nurse  was  very 
soon  free  to  descend  to  the  kitchen  with  her 
budget  of  complaint. 

"  Land's  sake,  what  a  child  !  "  she  observed 
to  the  cook.  "  She  sends  a  cold  shiver  down 
my  back  with  her  talk.  She's  the  most  out- 
landish one  to  take  care  of.  She's  'most  al- 
ways in  good  humor,  'cept  once  in  a  way  she 
gets  a  bad  turn;  but  she  makes  me  creep  with 
them  big  eyes  of  hers  lookin'  straight  into  you.'* 

"  Oh,  it's  herself  has  the  purty  face,"  said 
the  cook,  with  whom  Pauline  was  a  special 
favorite. 


li 


14 


Pauline. 


"  Yes,  she's  mighty  pretty,"  said  the  nurse 
with  a  kind  of  professional  pride;  "  not  that 
she  seems  to  set  any  store  by  her  good 
looks." 

"  I'm  afeard  it's  too  good  for  this  world  she 
is,"  said  the  cook. 

"  Oh,  she'll  grow  out  of  all  that,"  said  the 
housemaid;  "  lots  o'  them  are  just  like  that  at 
the  start.  But  I  must  say  she's  got  a  sweet 
way  about  her." 

From  that  time  forth,  Pauline  talked  no 
more  about  religion  in  the  nursery;  for,  hav- 
ing repeated  the  conversation  to  her  mother, 
who  was  the  gentlest,  the  most  refined  and 
long-suffering  of  invalids,  that  lady  forbade 
her  to  renew  the  subject. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  must  not  talk 
religion  to  your  nurse.  I  have  forbidden  her 
to  mention  the  subject  to  you,  and  so  you  see 
it  is  unfair  that  you  should  say  anything  to 
hurt  her  feelings." 

Pauline  thought  for  a  moment  before  she 
answered : 

"  I  only  told  her  that  perhaps  she  wouldn't 
go  to  heaven.  I  didn't  say  she  would  go  into 
hell-fire,  but  only  that  it  would  be  awful  to 
go  there.' 


>f 


I 


,1 


Pauline. 


IS 


Mrs.  Archer  could  hardly  keep  from  laugh- 
ing, but  she  said  gravely: 

"  I  thiiik  you  made  your  meaning  very 
plain  indeed,  and  I  feel  sorry  for  your  nurse." 

Pauline  was  sorry,  too,  when  she  thought 
of  it  in  this  light.  She  disliked  nothing  so 
much  as  hurting  anybody's  feelings.  But 
what  could  she  do  ?  She  hardly  thought  it 
would  be  right  to  assure  Rebecca  that  she 
could  go  to  heaven  without  Confession.  So 
s'he  wisely  dropped  the  subject,  and  spent  a 
very  pleasant  evening  with  her  doll,  to  whom 
she  could  speak  as  freely  as  she  ehose,  without 
fear  of  wounding  its  susceptibilities. 


Ml 
1 


iiij, 


i 


CHAPTER  11. 

Pauline's  father. 

Patjlinb  oould  see  her  mother  only  at  in- 
tenrals.  The  doctor  permitted  but  few  and 
brief  visits  to  the  invalid,  while  her  father,  a 
very  buBy  man,  was  not  often  in  the  house. 
Sometimes  Pauline  met  him  on  the  stairs  that 
summer,  and  it  seemed  to  surprise  him  that 
he  could  no  longer  toss  her  on  his  shoulder  or 
ride  her  on  his  knee,  as  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  do  in  her  eariier  years. 

«  Hello  ! "  he  usually  said.  "  What  a  big 
giri  you  have  grown,  to  be  sure  !  I  must  take 
you  for  a  drive  one  of  these  Sundays." 

But  when  Sunday  came,  popular  Reginald 

Archer  had  one  engagement  or  another,  and 

this  promise  was  neglected.     One  glorious 

September    afternoon,    however,    when    the 

people  were  just  about  beginning  to  come 

back  to  town  after  the  summer,  Mr.  Archer 

found  himself  with  nothing  in  pari;icular  to 

do.     As    he    walked    restlessly    about    the 

jfi 


if 


li' 


!l 


Pauline's  Father. 


17 


house,  he  chanced  to  catch  sight  of  Pauline, 
and  it  struck  him  as  quite  a  new  idea  that 
she  was  both  pretty  and  distinguished-look- 
ing. 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  out  on  the  avenue 
for  a  walk  with  me  ?  "  he  called  out  to  her. 

Pauline  was  delighted  at  the  suggestion, 
though  she  felt  rather  shy  of  this  big, 
bearded  man  whom  she  saw  so  seldom. 

*'  Well,  get  on  your  toggery,  then,  and  come 
along,"  Mr.  Archer  said  carelessly,  while 
Pauline  hastened  up  to  the  nursery  to  get 
ready. 

"  It's  about  time  he  took  some  notice  of 
her,"  grumbled  the  censorious  Rebecca. 
"  Half  the  time  she  might  as  well  have  no  pa.'*' 

Pauline,  coming  out  upon  the  avenue  at  her 
father's  side,  was  sensible  at  once  of  the  great 
rush  of  life  and  movement.  The  sound  of  the 
carriage-wheels  and  the  horses'  hoofs  upon  the 
pavement,  the  swift  passing  of  handsome 
equipages,  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the  stream 
of  well-dressed  people,  all  gave  the  impres- 
sion of  a  panorama.  Pauline  was  vaguely 
pleased  with  the  wonderful  costumes  that  she 
saw.  Something  in  the  little  soul  within  her 
responded  to  everything  that  was  beautiful  in 


'  HI'' 


'  I  ill 
ill! 


I 


i 


Mr 


i! 


ill 


18 


Pauline's  Father. 


life.  Her  father,  who  knew  a  great  many  of 
the  people  and  was  constantly  taking  off  his 
hat,  was  secretly  proud  of  the  small  figure  by 
his  side.  Engrossed  as  he  was  by  the  rise  and 
fall  of  stocks,  by  coupons  and  dividends,  he 
had  a  sixth  sense,  almost,  for  what  was  re- 
fined and  pleasing  in  womankind.  He  could 
not  bear  anything  loud  or  coarse  about  them, 
and  it  was  because  of  this  feeling  that  he  had 
chosen  for  his  wife  the  sweet  and  refined 
woman  who  now  lay,  as  he  feared,  slowly  dy- 
ing in  tihe  dimness  and  solitude  of  her  cham- 
ber. Pauline's  costume  was  charming,  simple 
and  fresh,  and  worn  with  that  indescribable 
air  of  daintiness  which  the  child  always  gave 
to  her  clothes.  Her  father  was  very  much 
gratified  by  the  admiring  looks  cast  upon  his 
daughter,  and  the  whispers  wliich  reached  him 
of:  *'  Isn't  she  lovely  ?    Perfectly  sweet  I " 

But  Pauline  was  quite  unconscious  of  it  all. 
She  walked  along  at  her  father's  side  erect  and 
graceful  as  a  willow,  with  her  blue  eyes  look- 
ing into  the  mysterious  something  that  al- 
ways seemed  before  them. 

"  I  suppose  we  may  as  well  go  to  church," 
said  her  father  in  his  indifferent  way.  *'  Would 
tou  care  to  ?  " 


li: 


Pauline's  Father. 


19 


Pauline  nodded. 

"  Yes,  papa,"  she  said  softly. 

But  she  was  somewhat  disappointed  when 
he  turned  away  from  the  avenue.  She  had 
expected  that  they  were  going  into  the  glori- 
ous white  cathedral,  that  always  reminded  her 
of  heaven,  and  where  the  music  had  often 
thrilled  her  whole  being.  They  walked 
eastward  for  a  block  or  two,  and  reached  an 
edifice  comparatively  plain  and  unadorned 
exterioriy.  Pauline  paused  a  moment  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  while  her  father  called  to  her 
from  the  lop  rather  impatiently: 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  come  in." 

It  cost  Pauline  an  effort  to  ask  the  question 
whidh  struggled  to  her  lips.  But  her  con- 
science was  always  on  the  alert,  and  she  felt 
that  she  ought  to  ask  it. 

"Papa,"  said  she  hesitatingly,  "is  it  a 
Catholic  church  ? " 

"Why,  of  course,  little  goose,"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  in  surprise;  and  then,  laugh- 
ing: "  Do  you  think  I  would  take  you  any- 
where else  ?  " 

The  exterior  of  the  church  had  struck 
Pauline  as  unfamiliar,  and  although  she 
knew  that  her  father  was  a  Catholic,  and 


111 


Mi 


20 


Pauline^s  Father. 


! 


I     ! 


if 


ill 


'It 

Mi 


1  I 


probably  thought  him  a  much  better  one  than 
he  really  was,  still  it  had  vaguely  occurred  to 
her  that  he  might  be  going  in  just  to  see  this 
as  she  thought  Protestant  church,  and  she  was 
unwilling  to  accompany  him. 

She  mounted  the  steps  with  alacrity  when 
her  father  had  given  the  assurance  that  all 
was  right,  while  he  said,  with  a  laugh  and 
another  sharp  look  at  her: 

"  I  see  you  are  an  iron-bound  bigot,  Miss 
Pauline  Archer." 

The  little  girl  did  not  a^  all  understand 
what  was  meant  by  the  words,  but,  the  church 
door  being  now  opened,  the  pealing  of  the 
organ  and  the  lights  upon  the  altar  showed 
that  Benediction  was  begun,  and  this  drove 
the  matter  from  her  mind. 

"  This  is  St.  Agnes'  Church,"  whispered  the 
father  as  they  both  took  holy  water.  He  said 
it  with  a  view  to  remove  the  last  trace  of 
doubt  from  her  mind;  but  the  altar,  with  the 
sacred  Host  exposed  upon  it,  would  have  done 
that. 

Pauline  knew  all  about  St.  Agnes,  too,  and 
the  story  recurred  to  her  mind,  filling  it  with 
a  strange  awe,  as  she  seemed  to  realize  what 
that    Christian    faith    was    for   which    that 


rr 


Pauline^  B  Father, 


21 


maiden  of  the  olden  time  had  died.  The 
Benediction  over,  she  walked  home  in  her 
quiet  fashion,  not  saying  a  word  to  her  father 
of  the  thoughts  which  occupied  her  mind. 
Few  people  imagine  how  secretive  is  much  of 
the  life  of  childhood,  how  many  thoughts  are 
suppressed,  how  many  fancies  remain  uncon- 
jectured,  even,  by  the  prosaic  elders. 

That  evening  Reginald  Archer  said  to  his 
wife: 

"What  a  strange  little  creature  Pauline  is  V* 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Reginald  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Archer  somewhat  anxiously. 

He  told  her  what  had  occurred,  and  how 
Pauline  had  been  unwilling  to  enter  the 
church  until  she  was  assured  it  was  a  Catholic 
one.    The  mother  smiled: 

"  She  is  a  thorough  little  Catholic,  at  all 
events,  and  I  am  glad  of  it;  aren't  you, 
Reginald  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  he  assented  absently;  "  but 
I  do  think  the  mite  has  been  too  much  alone. 
She  has  some  odd,  old-fashioned  ways  about 
her." 

Mrs.  Archer  sighed. 

"  I  fear  so,"  she  said,  "  and  it  saddens  me, 
for  I  am  so  helpless." 


r- 


l! 


' 


'r'l 


a 


ii 


li^, 


Hi 


itp 


fli  Pauline's  Father. 

"Don't  fret  about  it,"  said  the  husband; 
"  we'll  see  what  can  be  done.  Her  cousins  are 
coming  home  earlier  this  year,  and  we'll  try 
and  have  her  with  them,  for  one  thing.  But, 
by  Jove  ! "  he  added  emphatically,  "  she  is 
awfully  pretty,  Ada.  Half  the  women  on  the 
avenue  looked  admiringly  at  her." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  beauty  isn't  a  fatal 
gift  for  a  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Archer  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Nonsense,  dear  !  it's  worth  more  than  a 
fortune  to  her,"  said  Reginald  in  his  off-hand 
way.  "  Why,  you  yourself  were  just  the  pret- 
tiest creature  possible  when  I  saw  you  first." 

"  My  beauty,  such  as  it  was,"  said  Mrs. 
Archer,  a  little  wistfully,  "  hasn't  lasted  very 
long." 

Reginald  Archer  scanned  his  wife's  sadly 
worn  and  wasted  face  before  he  replied 
cheerily: 

"  When  you  get  strong  again,  you'll  be  all 
right." 

"  If  I  ever  do,"  she  exclaimed  almost  in- 
voluntarily; for,  though  she  said  little  about 
it,  it  was  a  fact  borne  in  upon  her  constantly 
that  the  crowning  gift  of  strength  was  nevef 
to  be  hers  on  this  bright,  glorious  earth. 


>^t 


Pauline's  Father. 


23 


From  that  day  forth,  and  following  upon 
that  conversation,  there  was  a  gradual  change 
in  Pauline  Archer's  life. 

Her  father  began  to  occupy  himself  seri- 
ously with  her.  In  the  first  place,  it  gratified 
the  vanity  of  this  self-absorbed  and  somewhat 
Mammon-worshipping  stock-broker  to  have 
so  pretty  a  daughter,  and  one  who  bore  the 
hall-mark  of  birth  and  breeding  even  in  the 
quaint  simplicity  of  her  manner  and  despite 
her  shyness.  Then  he  was  very  fond  of  her 
in  his  own  fashion,  and  began  to  understand 
that  she  must  have  rather  a  lonely  time  of  it. 
He  told  her  that  'her  cousins  were  expected 
home  very  soon,  and  that  that  event  would 
make  things  pleasanter  for  her. 

"  But  perhaps  I'll  be  so  ashamed  I  won't 
want  to  speak  to  them,"  said  Pauline  to  her 
nurse,  when  she  had  repeated  what  her  father 
had  told  her. 

"If  ever  I  heard  of  sich  an  outlandish 
child  ! "  said  the  nurse,  holding  up  her  hands 
in  protest.  "Ashamed  to  speak  to  her  own 
kin!" 

The  Archers  were  not  as  wealthy  as  they 
had  been,  owing  to  some  daring  speculations 
on  the  part  of  Reginald  which  had  resulted 


tt!i 

Is 


w 


f'l 


24 


Pauline^a  Father. 


m 


it  ! 


li 


Ml 


disastrously,  so  that  they  no  longer  lived  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  fashionable  world,  and 
some  of  their  acquaintances  were  mildly  dis- 
mayed to  find  them  located  rather  far  west  and 
somewhat  out  of  the  charmed  circle.  This  was 
one  of  the  reasons  why  Pauline  had  not  as- 
sociated very  much  with  other  children.  The 
Archers'  immediate  circle  of  friends  lived 
mostly  at  some  distance,  and  were  content  to 
visit  and  invite  them  at  intervals,  so  that  there 
was  little  opportunity  for  Pauline  to  form  an 
intimacy  with  the  children  of  those  families. 
Another  and  more  powerful  reason  was  to  be 
found  in  Mrs.  Archer's  unworldly  notions  and 
her  dread  of  exposing  Pauline  to  indiscrimi- 
nate companionship. 

"  When  I  am  not  there  to  watch  over  her," 
she  used  to  say,  "  it  makes  me  doubly  anxious; 
and  neither  wealth  nor  high  position  is  a 
guarantee  that  a  child  is  a  fit  associate  for  my 
poor  little  Pauline." 

Pauline  sometimes  heard  her  father  say  that 
they  were  poor.  Of  course  he  only  meant  it 
in  a  comparative  degree,  for  the  Archers  lived 
very  comfortably  indeed,  and  the  head  of  the 
house  spent  considerable  on  himself.  In  fact, 
since  they  had  been  living  quietly,  he  had  r^ 


Pauline^s  Father. 


25 


couped  some  of  his  losses  anu  was  in  a  fair 
way  to  recover  lost  ground.  Of  course  they 
no  longer  kept  carriages  or  horses,  and  even 
before  Mrs.  Archer  had  become  a  confirmed 
invalid  she  had  been  somewhat  limited  as  to 
elegant  costumes  and  costly  entertainments. 

"  I  am  certain  that  reverses  are  good  for 
people,"  she  had  said  to  her  husband.  "It  helps 
one  to  escape  what  sometimes  degenerates  into 
the  vulgarity  of  wealth,  and  far  graver 
dangers  even  than  that." 

Her  husband,  who  did  not  believe  that 
wealth  could  ever  be  an  evil,  looked  at  her 
inquiringly. 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  in  a  spiritual  way,"  she 
said.  "  One  hardens  towards  his  fellow  men, 
one  loses  sight  of  his  own  lowliness  before 
God,  and  grows  attached  to  the  world  and  its 
glitter." 

Reginald  patted  her  cheek. 

"  No  amount  of  wealth  could  make  you  do 
all  that,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"  No  one  can  answer  for  herself,"  said  she 
thoughtfully;  but  she  did  not  pursue  the  sub- 
ject, and  Reginald  was  presently  off  to  buy 
and  sell,  to  struggle  and  wrestle,  as  if  wealth 
were  "  the  one  thing  necessary." 


t;. 


1 


9  li 


II 


I 

I 

1  > 


i: 


"'1 

'Mil 
ill  I 

H 


IH 


CHAPTER  III. 


LITTLE  MARY   KELLY. 


Pauline,  who  had  her  own  thoughts  upon 
the  subject,  said  one  day  to  her  nuTse: 

"  I  don't  think  we're  poor  at  all,  but  little 
Mary  Kelly  is." 

"  Little  Mary  Kelly  I "  echoed  the  nurse. 
"  "Who  in  the  land's  name  is  she  ?  " 

"Her  father  fixes  shoes,"  Pauline  said 
quietly.  "  1  saw  him  tacking  and  hammering 
and  doing'  like  this." 

Pauline  imitated  the  man's  action  so  ex- 
actly that  the  nurse  said  with  a  sniff,  but  with 
some  real  curiosity: 

"  A  cobbler  !  But  how  came  you,  missy,  to 
know  that  he  had  a  child,  or  what  her  name 
was  ?  " 

"  I  saw  the  boys  chasing  her  to-day,"  said 

Pauline,  "and  I  was  sorry  for  her,  because 

they  call  me  names,  and  perhaps  they  would 

86 


ICn 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


87 


chase  me  only  I  am  bigger  and  live  in  this 
house.    Then  I  heard  one  boy  say: 

"  *  There  !  now  she's  down/ 

" '  Who  ? '  said  another. 

"  *  Little  Mary  Kelly,  and  I  guess  she's 
killed.  The  cops  will  be  coming,  and  we'd 
better  scoot.' " 

To  the  wonder  of  her  nurse,  Pauline  re- 
peated the  words  just  as  she  had  heard  them, 
winding  up,  as  she  so  often  did,  with  a  ques- 
tion: 

"  What's  *  cops '  ?  When  they  said  thej 
were  coming  I  looked  all  around,  but  1 
couldn't  see  anything." 

"  Never  you  mind  what  they  are,"  said  the 
nurse,  "and  don't  you  be  picking  up  words 
from  street-boys." 

"  After  the  boys  were  gone,"  said  Pauline, 
'*'  I  went  over  to  the  little  girl.  She  had  fallen 
down  and  cut  her  nose,  and  it  was  bleeding  a 
grea;t  deal." 

Pauline  turned  rather  pale  at  the  remem- 
brance, as  she  had  when  the  sight  first  met 
her  eyes.    But  she  proceeded: 

"  She  was  crying  very  hard,  and  she  didn't 
seem  to  have  any  handkerohief,  so  that  her 
frock  wafi  getting  all  stained.     I  gave  her 


■\ 


i  •, 


28 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


mine.  It  was  quite  clean,  Rebecca,  and  I  think 
she  was  glad  to  get  it." 

"  It's  a  wonder  you  made  up  your  mind  to 
speak  to  any  one,"  said  the  nurse. 

"  1  didn't  like  to,  very  much,"  admitted 
Pauline,  "  but  she  was  very  little  and  I  had 
to,  for  fear  she  might  bleed  to  death." 

"  No  danger  !  But  what  did  you  do  next  ?  " 
said  the  nurse.  "  Did  you  get  back  your  hand- 
kerchief ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Pauline  with  a  shudder,  re- 
membering the  stain  upon  it.  "  I  told  the 
little  girl  that  she'd  better  go  home,  and  1 
would  go  with  her  in  case  the  boys  came  back. 
She  was  glad,  I  think.  But  I  wouldn't  have 
been  much  use  if  they  had  come,"  sihe  wound 
up  with  a  laugh. 

"  You're  right  there,"  Eebecca  said,  "  and 
I  just  do  wonder  what  you'd  have  done  if 
they  had  come." 

"  I  think  I'd  have  stood  still  and  looked  at 
them  and  held  little  Mary's  hand,"  said  Pau- 
line. "  But  I  don't  know;  perhaps  I'd  have 
run  away." 

"  You  took  the  young  one  home,  any- 
how ?  "  inquired  Rebecca,  her  curiosity  again 
gaining  the  mastery. 


i!il 


'ill 
(III; 

Mil 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


M 


"Yes,  she  lived  a  block  away,"  said  Pau- 
line. "  I  walked  beside  her,  and  all  of  a  sud- 
den she  went  down  into  a  cellar.  I  looked  in, 
and  I  saw  a  man  fixing  shoes  there,  and  she 
called  out  to  him,  so  I  suppose  he  was  her 
father." 

After  this  recital  Pauline  stood  still  pon- 
dering, and  knitting  her  brows  till  they  met. 
At  last  she  exclaimed: 

"  It  must  be  awful,  Rebecca,  to  live  in  a 
cellar  ! " 

"  Well,  be  thankful  you  haven't  got  to  do 
it,"  returne'^  the  nurse  shortly,  "  and  keep 
away  from  sich  places  and  people." 

But  Pauline's  mother,  on  hearing  the  story, 
said: 

"  You  did  quite  right,  dear,  and  I  shall  tell 
Eebecca  to  go  with  you  in  the  morning  to 
ask  if  the  little  girl  is  quite  well  again,  and 
you  may  take  her  some  candy  or  fruit,  if  you 
like." 

"  I  might  be  ashamed  to  give  it  to  her,"  ob- 
served Pauline. 

"  You  needn't  be;  but  in  any  case  Rebecca 
won't  mind." 

Pauline  went  to  sleep  that  night  with  a 
curious,  excited  feeling.    She  thought  it  waa 


i^ 


f* 


If 


^ 


il'i 


ii 


|«s 


#: 


mr^ 


i.Mii 


so 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


'    W 

'.  ii 

.1 


li' 


something  strange  and  new  and  a  little  bit 
awful  to  go  down  into  a  cellar,  but  with  Re- 
becca's support  it  could  be  managed.  Besides, 
her  mother  seemed  to  wish  it,  and  she  really 
wanted  to  go  herself. 

Next  morning,  Rebecca,  who  had  her  own 
thoughts  about  the  proposed  expedition,  but 
was  too  well  trained  to  express  them  in  op- 
position to  her  mistress's  orders,  helped  Pau- 
line to  dress,  in  no  very  good  humor. 

"  I  particularly  want  Pauline  la  see  some- 
thing of  the  poor  and  know  something  of 
their  lives,"  Mrs.  Archer  had  said.  "  There  is 
8uch  danger,  in  these  big,  God-forgetting 
cities,  of  a  child  growing  up  to  despise  the 
poor  and  regard  only  the  rich." 

Rebecca  had  made  no  answer.  She  felt  that 
her  mistress  was  thinking  aloud  rather  than 
speaking  to  her;  and  besides  she  could  not 
follow  such  reasoning  at  all,  and  put  it  down 
to  a  "sick  body's  notions."  Poverty  was  in 
Rebecca's  eyes,  if  not  a  disgrace,  at  least  some- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of,  and  her  long  residence 
in  the  families  of  the  rich  had  made  her  al- 
most forget  that  she  "^as  of  the  poor  herself. 

Guided  by  Pauline,  Rebecca  finally  arrived 
at  the  head  of  the  celldr  steps,  where  the  little 


r.flni 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


31 


girl  paused  with  natural  timidity,  ae  well  as  a 
delicacy  which  made  her  fear  to  intrude. 

"Perhaps  they  won't  like  it,'*  she  whis- 
pered. 

But  Rehecca,  who  was  troubled  with  no 
such  scruples  and  wanted  to  get  the  visit  oyer 
as  8oon  as  possible,  went  briskly  down,  calling 
Pauline  to  come  after  her.  Before  they  bad 
reached  the  foot  of  the  steps,  a  small  figure 
suddenly  emerged  from  the  comparative 
gloom  beyond  and,  catching  sight  of  Pauline, 
ran  back  hastily.  As  she  went,  ehe  cried 
out  to  some  one  in  the  background: 

"Daddy  I  daddy  I  it's  the  little  lady. 
Come  and  see." 

Pauline,  hearing  this,  advanced  into  the 
cellar,  and  the  cobbler,  standing  up,  received 
her  with  a  politeness  none  the  less  genuine 
for  being  unpolished.  Rebecca,  however,  did 
the  talking. 

"This  young  lady's  mother  sent  her  to 
know  how  your  little  girl  is  to-day,"  said  R^ 
becca  with  the  air  of  superiority  she  always 
assumed  in  dealing  with  the  poor. 

"  My  little  girl,"  repeated  the  cobbler,  as  if 
he  did  not  quite  understand. 

"  Was  she  very  muc>h  hurt  when  she  fell 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


n 


h4\ 


'M'. 


down  yesterday  ?  "  asked  Pauline,  her  shyness 
yielding  to  her  desire  to  seem  friendly. 

"  Oh,  no,  miss,  ^he  was  more  frightened 
than  hurt,"  said  the  cobbler.  "  But  you  must 
be  the  little  lady  that  she  said  picked  her  up 
and  came  home  with  her." 

**Yes,  I  came  home  with  her,"  said  Pau- 
line. 

"Ah,  then,  miss,  dear,  and  I'm  entirely 
obliged  to  you,"  said  the  man,  with  an  emo- 
tion which  made  his  young  guest  feel  uncom- 
fortable, "  as  well  as  the  kind  thought  you 
and  your  mother — God  bless  her,  whoever  she 
is,  for  a  real  lady — had  in  sending  to  ask." 

"I  was  very  sorry  she  got  thrown  down," 
Pauline  continued. 

"  Oh,  little  miss,"  said  the  cobbler,  with  a 
smile  on  his  grim  visage,  and  a  note  in  his  voice 
which  would  have  struck  an  older  person  as 
pathetic,  "  the  children  of  the  poor  gets  many 
hard  knocks,  but  mebbe  they  don't  feel  them 
as  others  do." 

All  this  while  little  Mary  had  been  keeping 
in  the  background.  Pauline  did  not  like  to 
look  around  much;  it  would  have  seemed  very 
rude.  But  she  thought  the  cellar  a  very 
etrange  place,  with  the  cobbler's  chair  and 


lik    :'  i<li 


Little  Mary  Kelly, 


sa 


bench  in  the  centre  of  it,  as  well  as  his  tooL', 
while  bits  of  leather  were  strewn  all  about. 
Boots  and  shoes  in  various  stages  of  repair 
were  visible,  as  well  as  a  few  great  sheets  of 
leather.  In  one  comer  was  a  play  which  little 
Mary  had  evidently  been  making  on  the  floor, 
and  Pauline's  big  blue  eyes  noted  a  few  strips 
of  the  prevailing  fabric,  soft  leather,  some  of 
which  were  colored,  a  penny  doll  with  the 
paint  off  its  face,  and  a  couple  of  pinwheels. 

"  Come  here,  Mary,"  called  the  father, 
**  and  thank  the  little  lady  for  coming  to  ask 
after  you." 

As  Mary  came  out  from  behind  her  father's 
chair,  half -pleased  and  half -shy,  Pauline  could 
not  help  noticing  that  her  pinafore  was  torn 
and  that  her  hands  were  not  very  clean. 

"  But  it  must  be  hard  to  keep  clean  down 
here,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  she's  too  little 
to  mend  her  pinafore.  Fm  clean,  but  then 
I  have  a  nurse." 

Pauline  offered  little  Mary  the  parcel  of 

candy  which  she  had  brought,  as  well  as  a 

parcel  of  bananas.    Mary  was  so  overcome  that 

she  forgot  any  longer  to  be  bashful. 

"  Oh,  what  lovely  candy — and  those  I "  ^he 
eaid^  holding  up  a  banana  to  her  fatiher. 


'  t 


iHi 


"iWI, 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


*^  Tm  sure  it*8  very  kind  of  you,  mifls,"  said 
the  cobbler,  who  seemed  really  touched  by  the 
whole  affair.  "  And  it  isn't  too  much  kind- 
ness my  motherless  little  one  gets.  I  just  have 
to  keep  her  mostly  with  myself.  For,  when 
she  goes  out,  you  see  the  rough  handling  she's 
liable  to  get.  I'm  afeard,  too,  of  bad  company 
for  her." 

Pauline  looked  with  new  interest  at  the 
little  girl  who  had  no  mother,  and  only  this 
dark  cellar  to  play  in,  near  her  father,  who 
was  always  at  work. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Pauline  with  a  kindly  im- 
pulse, "you  might  let  her  come  up  near 
onr  house  sometimes.  It's  generally  quiet 
there,  and  if  any  rough  children  came,  I  could 
call  Bebecca." 

It  was  just  as  well  that  worthy  woman  did 
not  hear  this  last  proposition,  or  she  might 
haye  vetoed  it  on  the  spot  and  mortally  of- 
fended the  cobbler.  But  she  was  already  on 
the  steps  above,  waiting  impatiently  for  her 
charge,  and  intent  meanwhile  in  watching 
what  was  going  on  in  that  busy  thoroughfare 
of  Eighth  Avenue. 

It  was  pretty  to  observe  Pauline*s  manner 
towards  the  cobbler  and  his  little  daughter. 


i'i 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


86 


so  gravely,  punctiliously  polite  was  she,  and, 
more  than  that,  warming  into  a  cordiality  and 
kindliness  which  she  might  not  have  shown 
to  people  of  her  own  station. 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  goodness,"  said  the 
man,  looking  down  with  a  strangely  softened 
expression  upon  his  visitor.  "  I'm  af  eard  my 
little  Mary's  no  playfellow  for  the  likes  of  you, 
and  mebbe  your  folks  wouldn't  like  it." 

Pauline  did  not  know  what  answer  to  make 
to  this  remark,  but  she  said  presently: 

"  I  think  little  Mary  will  like  it  up  there, 
and  1  will  show  her  some  dolls  and  things  and 
let  her  feed  the  pigeon." 

"  Oh,  may  I  go  to  feed  the  pigeon  ?  "  said 
little  Mary,  quite  overcome  by  this  last 
temptation,  which  appealed  to  her  with  special 
force. 

"  But  mebbe  your  folks  might  object,"  said 
the  cobbler. 

"  Oh,  I  know  my  mother  will  be  pleased," 
said  Pauline,  "and  my  father  won't  mind  at 
all."  -   -  -  - 

"  Well,  I'll  send  'her  up,  then,  some  morn- 
ing, soon,"  said  the  man,  "but  be  sure  to 
send  her  home  if  she's  in  the  way." 

The  poor  man  was  divided  between  a  desire 


«!. 


•I^l; 


M 


86 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


m 


!s^  ' 


V  i 


•'■]'■ 
I.I :  i-   M 


to  give  his  little  daughter  pleasure  and  a  fear 
that  she  might  be  intruding  upon  these  people 
of  another  world. 

"  Well,  good-by,"  said  Pauline  as  Rebecca 
called  impatiently  for  her  to  come.  Her  eyes 
rested  first  on  the  cobbler  and  then  wandered 
to  little  Mary. 

As  she  turned  away  the  cobbler  looked 
earnestly  after  the  small  figure,  which  had 
never  looked  more  dainty  or  more  elegant 
than  in  these  dingy  surroundings. 

"  There's  not  many  like  her,"  he  said,  re- 
turning to  his  stitching  and  tacking,  while 
Mary  crept  close  to  his  side. 

"  P'raps  she's  one  of  the  fairies  you  told 
jne  about,"  said  she; ''  her  hair  shines  and  she 
wears  lovely  clothes." 

"  She's  better  than  that,"  said  the  cobbler; 
and  Mary,  going  back  to  her  play,  wondered 
what  better  there  could  be  than  a  fairy  except 
the  people  in  heaven.  Like  Pauline,  this  little 
girl  was  sometimes  lonely.  Her  father's  com- 
panionship was  the  only  one  she  had.  For  he 
would  not  suffer  her  to  mingle  with  the  rough 
boys  and  almost  as  unmanageable  girls  who 
frequented  the  neighborhood.  He  was  striv- 
ing in  that  darksome  cellar^  in  so  far  as  he 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


37 


could,  to  bring  Mary  up  as  some  precious 
flower. 

He  stopped  his  work  a  moment  to  look 
wistfully  at  her,  where  she  sat  on  the  floor 
with  her  play,  unconscious  of  all  that  was 
lacking  in  her  life.  She  was  playing,  quite 
happily,  that  her  doll  was  the  little  lady  who 
had  come  with  candy. 

"  God  help  her  ! "  said  the  father  to  him- 
self. His  mind  was  busy  pondering  whether 
or  not  it  was  wisest  to  let  Mary  accept  Pau- 
line's invitation.  If  she  did,  it  might  only  dis- 
satisfy her  by  giving  her  an  insight  into  a 
life  different  from  her  own,  and  moreover  she 
might  meet  with  some  slight  from  "  that 
stuck-up  servant,"  as  he  mentally  Kamed  Re- 
becca, or  from  others.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
seemed  cruel  to  refuse  his  Mary  the  offered 
gleam  of  sunshine,  and  surely  "  the  little  lady 
wasn't  stuck  up,  anyhow." 

Thus  he  argued  with  his  own  heart,  so  that 
when  the  twilight  came  that  day  the  cobbler, 
stitching  hard  to  finish  the  mending  of  a 
shoe  by  the  waning  light,  was  thinking  of 
Pauline,  about  whom  little  Mary  was  prattling 
close  by  and  invoking  blessings  on  her  head, 
at  the  very  time  that  Mrs.  Archer,  at  the 


■'<: 


I:. 


I 


88 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


■■■I 

t 


close  of  one  more  day  of  pain  and  weariness, 
was  rousing  herself  to  interest  in  the  recital 
of  Pauline's  experience. 

"  Isn't  it  strange,"  said  Pauline;  "  she's  so 
small  and  she  hasn't  got  any  mother." 

Pauline's  eyes  were  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow thoughtfully.  Mrs.  Archer,  with  a  quick 
pang,  wondered  if  some  one  might  not  shortly 
be  saying  the  very  same  thing  of  her  little 
Pauline.  "  If  I  can  but  live  till  she  is  grown 
up  !  "  she  said  within  herself.  "  Dear  Lord, 
if  it  be  Thy  will  ! " 

She  quite  approved  of  the  invitation  Pau- 
line had  given  the  cobbler's  child  to  play  upon 
their  steps  and  sidewalk  under  Eebecca's  pro- 
tection. She  also  made  up  her  mind  that 
after  suitable  inquiry  had  been  made  as  to  the 
child's  character  and  disposition  she  would  go 
farther,  and  permit  Pauline  to  invite  her  into 
the  house  and  plan  various  little  pleasures  for 
her. 

"  What,  in  tl-e  name  of  mercy,  have  you  got 
here  ?  "  said  Reginald  Archer  on  the  following 
morning,  alm-.-ril-  stumbling  over  little  Mary  as 
he  came  out  of  the  dark  hall  into  the  sunshine, 

"It's  little  Mary  Kelly,"  said  Pauline 
gravely.  ' 


Little  Mary  Kelly. 


39 


*'  O'h,  indeed  !  Well,  I'm  not  much  wiser 
than  I  was  before,  but  I  think  it's  the  first 
tiTne  I  ever  saw  you  playing  with  any  child." 

After  he  had  stepped  into  the  hansom 
which,  at  his  telephone  summons,  had  driven 
up  to  the  door,  he  called  Pauline. 

"  Who's  the  little  girl  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  belongs  to  the  cobbler,"  said  Pauline 
solemnly. 

Reginald  Archer  exploded  in  a  great,  hearty 
laugh  and  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"  Oh,  that's  who  she  is  !  So  you've  got 
to  treat  her  well.  Here's  a  quarter  to  buy  some 
Bweet  stuff." 

Kissing  Pauline  in  his  careless  fashion,  and 
with  a  droll  glance  at  the  diminutive  figure 
which  was  seated  demurely  on  the  steps,  the 
busy  broker  gave  an  order  to  the  cabman  and 
was  driven  away. 

After  that  little  Mary  Kelly  became  an  in- 
stitution, a  plaything  rather  than  a  playfel- 
low, one  who  listened,  without  understanding, 
to  Pauline's  quaint  sayings.  She  never  quite 
got  over  the  notion  that  her  benefactress 
might  have  some  connection  with  that  fairy 
world  of  which  her  faiher,  with  his  vein 
of  Celtic  poetry  and  imagmation,  had  given 
fier  an  insight 


U 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN   UNEXPECTED    PLEASURE. 

One  afternoon  when  Reginald  Archer  had 
nothing  very  particular  to  do  and  was  feeling 
somewhat  bored,  he  began  to  remember  his 
good  resolutions  with  regard  to  his  daughter 
and  the  promises  which  he  had  made  in  that 
connection  to  his  wife.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  take  Pauline  to  the  Park  and 
show  her  some  of  the  sights.  So  he  put  his 
head  out  of  the  window  of  the  library,  where 
he  was  sitting,  to  see  if  Pauline  was  at  her 
customary  post  upon  the  steps.  Yes,  Pau- 
line was  there  with  little  Mary  Kelly  beside 
her,  both  intent  on  feeding  the  pigeon  with 
crumbs. 

"If  you  touch  him  just  there  where  his 
feathers  are  so  very  purple,"  Pauline  was  say- 
ing, "  it  feels  as  if  he  was  made  of  silk." 

"  Fraps  he  is,"  said  Mary,  struck  by  the 
idea  and  looking  up  into  Pauline's  face. 

"Oh,   no,"    said    Pauline,   "feathers    are 

different  from  silk." 

40 


An  Unexpected  Pleasure. 


41 


(t 


Are  they  ? "  asked  little  Mary,  who  didn't 
know  very  much  about  either. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  knows  when  we're  talking 
about  him,"  said  Pauline. 

Mary  eyed  the  pigeon  closely,  but  got  no 
information  from  him  on  the  subject.  The 
bird  seemed  chiefly  intent  on  picking  up  the 
crumbs  as  speedily  as  possible.  In  fact,  it 
was  plain  that  he  didn't  care  very  much 
whether  they  were  talking  about  him  or  not. 

"  If  he  could  speak,"  added  Pauline,  "  I 
wonder  what  he  would  say." 

"  Birds  can't  speak,  though,"  said  Mary, 
feeling  that  this  was  something  she  did  know 
about. 

"  Some  kinds  can,"  said  Pauline. 

"  Can  they  ?  "  asked  Mary,  in  astonishment. 

"  Parrots  and  some  others,  I  think.  I 
don't  remember  their  names,"  said  Pauline. 

Here  Mr.  Archer's  head  came  altogethei 
out  of  the  window,  and  he  called  out: 

"  Puuline,  would  you  lik^  to  go  up  to  the 
Park  with  me  this  afternoon  ?  " 

Pauline  nodded  be^  ead  several  times  to» 
show  her  great  pleasure  at  the  idea.  Then 
she  paused  with  a  hesitating  glance  at  the 
figure  of  the  child  beside  her. 


% 


■'It 


42 


An  Unexpected  Pleasure. 


1:1 


Ik 


"  That  can  be  managed,  too,  I  think,"  said 
her  father.  "  Your  distinguished  friend  can 
go  with  us,  only  Rebecca  will  have  to  tidy 
you  both  up  somewhat." 

He  meant  this  latter  remark  especially  for 
the  visitor,  for  Pauline,  as  usual,  was  as  dainty 
as  if  she  had  come  out  of  the  traditional  band- 
box. Poor  little  Mary,  on  the  other  hand, 
daspite  her  father's  efforts,  was  wofully 
shabby. 

"  Although  you  haven't  answered,''  paid 
Mr.  Archer,  "  except  by  nodding  your  head 
like  a  mandarin,  I  take  it  that  you  want  to  go. 
So  I  shall  ring  for  Rebecca." 

He  did  so,  and  having  given  her  a  few  in- 
structions, she  took  the  children  away  with 
her  to  the  nursery,  grumbling  an^.  dissatis- 
fied at  heart.  She  told  herself  that  she  had 
no  patience  with  the  freaks  of  rich  people. 
They  were  always  doing  outlandish  things 
and  making  trouble  for  themselves  and  others. 

"  I'm  sure  J.  never  seen  the  like,"  she  solilo- 
quized. "  Children  out  of  slums  being  made 
welcome  and  taken  out  to  the  Park,  if  you 
please  ! " 

Nevertheless  "he  presently  transformed  lit- 
tle Mary     She  put  on  her  a  discarded  frock 


* 


An  Unexpected  Pleasure. 


43 


and  pinafore  of  Pauline's  which  that  little 
lady  had  worn  at  an  early  age.  These,  with 
the  addition  of  a  hat  which  had  once  shaded 
i^auline's  blue  eyes,  set  upon  hair  which  Re- 
becca had  vigorously  brushed,  caused  the 
child  to  present  a  very  respectable  appearance 
indeed.  She  stood  very  much  in  awe  of  Mr. 
Archer,  and  bent  down  her  head  when  he 
spoke  to  her  till  her  lately  brushed  hair  fell 
over  her  face.  * 

However,  she  was  very  soon  relieved  from 
embarrassment,  for,  once  they  had  boarded  a 
Broadway  cable-car,  Mr.  Archer  left  the  chil- 
dren to  themselves.  He  went  out  upon  the 
platform,  and  stood  there  in  conversation 
with  an  acquaintance  whom  he  met.  And 
even  after  they  reached  their  destination  he 
said  very  little  to  Pauline  and  nothing  at  all 
to  her  playmate,  except  a  careless  word  or  two. 

Little  Mary  Kelly  had  never  before  been 
taken  to  the  Park.  Her  father  had  thought 
of  taking  her  there  from  time  to  time,  but 
even  car-fare  is  a  consideration  to  the  very 
poor,  so  he  had  always  consoled  himself  with 
the  idea  that  when  Mary  was  big  enough  to 
walk  they  would  go  up  some  Sunday.  And 
he  could  not  restrain  a  slight  feeling  of  dis- 


I 


I* ' 


:ii 


■it 


m 


7  ^'m 


44 


An  Unexpected  Pleasure. 


w^ 


r:| 


appointment  when  he  heard,  later  on,  that 
Mary  had  been  taken  to  that  wonderful  place 
by  others  than  himself. 

Even  the  ride  in  the  cars,  short  as  it  was, 
was  t.  novelty  to  little  Mary,  who  sat  very  stiU, 
with  a  broad  smile  of  delight  brightening  her 
face.  It  was  an  added  enjoyment  to  Pauline 
t^  notice  the  joy  of  her  tiny  playmate,  and 
th  ,i  ning  she  communicated  the  result  of 
her  oL   TFationc  to  her  nurse  and  her  mother. 

"  She  never  saw  the  Park,^'  said  Pauline  to 
her  nurse,  "  and  never  flowers  growing,  in  her 
whole  life  before." 

"  Of  course  not,"  snapped  Eebecca,  who 
disapproved  altogether  of  the  new  acquaint- 
ance. "  Where  would  sich  a  child  see  flow- 
ers ?    Not  in  her  father's  cellar,  I  suppose." 

"  She  thought  the  swans  were  fairies,  and 
the  lake  an  enchanted  place,"  Pauline  con- 
tinued, adding  thoughtfully:  "She  seems  to 
know  more  about  fairies  than  almost  any- 
thing else." 

"  It  would  be  better  for  her  to  know  saving 
truths,"  said  Rebecca  with  a  sanctimonious 
air,  "than  all  those  lies." 

"  Are  fairies  lies  ?  "  asked  Pauline,  opening 
her  eyes  wide.     She  had  been  taught  to  have 


I 


An  Unexpected  Pleasure. 


4A 


so  great  a  horror  of  falsehood  that  this  new 
idea  jarred  upon  her. 

"  Of  course  they  is,"  said  the  nurse. 
**  This  beggar-child  ought  to  be  taught  gospel 
truth." 

"  She  doesn't  beg,"  corrected  Pauline  gent- 
ly, "  and  she  knows  her  prayers  very  well,  and 
goes  to  church  almost  every  day,  although 
she's  so  little." 

Rebecca  sniffed.  It  would  have  pleased  her 
better  had  the  little  girl  from  the  cellar  been 
an  actual  heathen.  It  would  have  fitted  in 
better  with  her  idea  of  heaven,  too,  which  she 
vaguely  thought  ought  to  be  reserved  for  re- 
spectable people,  who  were  either  of  independ- 
ent fortune  or,  at  least,  earning  good  wag 28. 

Pauline  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  Re- 
becca's bitterness  scarcely  touched  her;  she 
did  not  understand  it,  and  it  hardly  occurred 
to  her  to  wonder  why  Rebecca  was  always 
cross  when  little  Mary  was  mentioned. 

This  conversation  of  course  took  place 
after  the  children's  return  from  their  expe- 
dition; but  the  following  chapter  will  be 
devoted  to  the  account  of  their  afternoon  at 
the  Park,  what  they  did  and  saw  there,  and 
how  little  Mary  enjoyed  it. 


I 


Iff 

J 


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];■'■ 
iv 


I 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  AFTERNOON  AT  THE  PARK. 

Little  Mary  Kelly  was  in  a  very  ecstasy 
of  delight  from  the  moment  that  she  followed 
Mr.  Archer  and  Pauline  in  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  gate  of  Central  Park  till  they  left  it 
m  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  There  was  the 
"oan^  playing  on  the  Mall,  which  was  full  of 
people — men,  women,  and  children — walking 
about  or  sitting  on  the  benches.  There  was 
the  smooth,  velvety  grass,  varied  from  time  to 
time  by  flower-beds  and  trees  of  all  varieties, 
the  latter  meeting  overhead  at  times;  there 
were  rocks  grown  over  with  creeping  plants; 
curious  tunnels,  and  delightful  summer- 
houses,  and  the  lake,  which  to  little  Mary's 
eyes  might  have  been  a  sea,  so  broad  it  was. 
Surely  it  was  one  of  those  enchanted  places 
of  which  her  father  had  told  her,  and  the 
swans  its  fairies.  She  looked  at  them  with 
something  like  awe  as  they  glided  along  over 
the  smooth  water,  so  white,  so  graceful. 

46 


ii!  r 


w 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Parlb.  47 

"  Oh,  ain't  they  lovely  ! "  she  whispered  to 
Pauline. 

"  Yes,  they  go  along  so  softly  and  grace- 
fully," said  Pauline. 

Presently  Mr.  Archer  hailed  a  swan-boat 
and  put  the  two  children  into  it,  asking  the 
boatman  to  look  after  them  a  bit  while  he  sat 
down  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  to  smoke  a  cigar. 

Once  out  upon  the  water,  little  Mary  was  at 
the  height  of  blissful  wonderment  and  en- 
joyment. She  loolced  often  at  Pauline,  who 
sat  erect  and  demure,  her  big  blue  eyes,  with 
their  long  lashes,  shadowed  by  the  leaf  of  her 
leghorn,  with  ii..  simple  but  elegant  trimming, 
which  finished  the  dainty  costume  of  zephjr 
gingham  enlivened  by  pretty  ribbons.  To 
Mar/s  infantile  mind  recurred  her  first  idea 
that  Pauline  might  be  a  fairy  or  even  the 
queen  of  the  fairies,  who  commanded  all  those 
beautiful  white  creatures  that  floated  around 
them.  11 1^1 

Pauline  was  thinking  her  own  tranquil 
thoughts  meanwhile,  which  were  often  deeper 
and  truer  than  those  of  most  children  of  her 
age.  They  touched  the  why  and  wherefore, 
the  inner  heart  of  things.  She  was  wondering 
just  then  about  the  swans,  if  they  knew  how 


^1 

I 


r 


48 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


I' 


m. 


beautiful  they  were,  and  if  they  ever  talked 
among  themselves,  or  ever  went  down  into 
silver  caverns,  as  the  story-books  said  they 
did.  She  saw  the  shadows  of  the  drooping 
trees  reflected,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that 
those  old  tales  might  be  true  about  other 
cities  lying  buried  under  the  waters. 

"  If  the  boat  were  to  sink  and  we  went 
down  there,"  she  thought,  "  perhaps  we'd  see 
a  lot  of  strange  things." 

She  watched  little  Mary's  chubby  dark  face 
framed  in  its  bush  of  dark  hair  and  forming 
6uch  a  contrast  to  her  own — ^though  that  she 
did  not  realize.  She  saw  the  little  fat  hands 
clasped  every  once  in  a  while  aa  the  child 
gave  utterance  to  cries  of  delight  or  began  to 
croooi  songs,  which  caused  the  stolid  boatman 
to  star'^  curiously  at  her.  Once  or  twice  he 
spoke  to  her. 

"Look  out,"  he  said,  "or  you'll  go  over- 
board. Don't  you  lean  over  there,  or  the 
fishes  will  have  you." 

These  remonstrances,  though  not  addressed 
to  her,  made  Pauline  uncomfortable.  The 
man's  presence  in  the  boat  had  been  a  re- 
straint on  her,  keeping  her  silent,  and  she 
thought  that  she  would  just  hate  it  if  ho 


TJie  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


49 


turned  round  and  spoke  to  her.  Little  Mary 
did  not  mind  the  man  or  his  speech,  but  she 
was  very  much  disturbed  at  the  idea  of  the 
oold  slimy  fishes  '*  having  her  ";  though,  in- 
deed, her  only  knowledge  of  those  creatures 
was  the  seeing  them  exposed  for  sale  at  a 
fish-market  or  brought  home  to  be  cooked 
by  her  father.  So  she  shrank  as  far  away  as 
possible  from  the  edge  of  the  boat,  which 
presently  reached  the  landing  after  a  com- 
plete tour  of  the  lake. 

Mr.  A  rcher  called  out  from  the  shore  to  the 
children: 

"I  suppose  you've  had  about  enough  of 
that.  So  get  out  now,  and  you  may  have  a 
drive  in  the  goat-carriages  and  perhaps  a 
donkey-ride,  if  you  care  about  it." 

Urged  by  these  alluring  promises,  the  two 
little  people  stepped  quickly  ashore,  after  one 
wistful  glance  at  the  water  they  were  leaving. 
They  were  presently  being  driven  up  and 
down  by  solemn-faced  jehus,  to  whom  the 
raptures  of  their  childish  customers  were  as 
the  joy  of  mortals  before  the  gods. 

Pauline's  face  was  beaming  with  smiles,  and 
little  Mary  Kelly  laughed  aloud  with  such 
unaffected  glee  that  her  infectious  merriment 


k 

■I 


1! 

ll 
i   , 


"^ 


60 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


Si 


n 


seized  upon  Mr.  Archer.  It  was  a  new  ex- 
perience to  him,  this  giving  pleasure  to  others. 
Indeed,  it  is  an  enjoyment  in  which  the  rich 
far  too  seldom  indulge.  They  forget  how 
few  and  simple  are  the  pleasures  of  tlie  poor, 
and  how  easy  it  is  to  add  to  them. 

Keginald  Archer  had  always  been  very  good 
and  devoted  to  his  wife,  and  before  she  had 
become  an  invalid  he  had  taken  her  to  various 
places  of  amusement,  spending  money  lavish- 
ly, but  not  always  realizing  that,  though  his 
gentle  companion  strove  hard  to  enjoy  what 
he  enjoyed,  her  physical  ailments  made  it 
very  difficult  and  wearisome  for  her.  He  had 
been  kind  and  indulgent  to  Pauline  when  she 
crossed  his  path.  But  until  the  last  few 
weeks  he  had  totally  neglected  her. 

So  here  he  found  himself  providing 
pleasures  that  were  an  unmixed  delight  to 
these  two  simple  beings.  Pauline  was  the 
happier  that  her  little  playfellow  was  so  over- 
joyed. For  Mtry  it  was  as  a  sun  rising  on  her 
dismal  horizon  which  would  never  entirely 
go  down.  Its  light  would  illumine  the  cellar 
for  a  long  time  to  come. 

The  drive  in  the  goat-wagons  was  followed 
by  a  few  turns  up  and  down  on  the  back  of 


i;:r  ■! 


m 

i! 


Ttie  Afternoon  at  the  1  ark. 


51 


the  patient  donkeys  that  stood  waiting,  sad- 
dled and  bridled,  for  just  such  riders.  These 
animals,  having  received  an  impetus  from  the 
driver,  trotted  oft'  after  their  peculiar  fashion. 
A  man  ran  beside,  and  in  little  Mary's  case 
held  her  on,  while  Pauline  iat  upright,  the 
sun  making  glints  in  her  hair  where  it  fell 
waving  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  eyes  look- 
ing away  into  the  distance  with  that  look 
which  her  nurse  called  "  creepy." 

She  stroked  the  donkey's  head  gently  as  she 
got  down,  md  the  animal,  appreciating  her 
soft  touch  strove  to  thrust  his  rough  head 
and  long  ears  towards  her  again. 

"  Queen  Mab  and  Bottom,"  said  the  father, 
who  had  just  been  seeing  \he  "Midsummer- 
night's  Dream"  at  Daly's. 

"  Who  is  Bottom  ?  "  inq  aired  Pauline. 

"  Oh,  the  fellow  that  put  on  the  ass's  head," 
said  her  father  vaguely,  "  and  you  were  Mab, 
Queen  of  the  Fairies." 

Little  Mary  caught  this  speech,  and  it  con- 
firmed her  more  than  ever  in  the  idea  about 
Pauline. 

"  We  must  see  if  we  car  -vt  some  ice-cream 
now,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "  uiuess  either  of  you 
objects." 


\ 


JV 


C^:ft- 


m 


4 


9$  The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 

"  I  don't  think  we  will,"  said.  Pauline  with 
her  quaint  little  laugh,  and  Mr.  Archer  hailed 
a  Park  omnibus.  He  had  never  driven  in  this 
vehicle  before,  but  it  was  a  day  of  ne^ 
periences,  and  he  told  the  driver  to  let  them 
off  near  the  Casino.  They  were  soon  seated 
at  a  marble  table,  with  pink-and-white  ices 
and  a  heaping  plate  of  cake  before  them. 
Little  Mary,  liiW  shy  of  Mr.  Archer,  stuck  her 
finger  in  her  mouth  and  would  not  begin  to 
eat  until  that  good-natured  gentleman,  guess* 
ing  what  the  trouble  was  and  not  caring  to 
take  ices  himself,  as  he  was  smoking,  moved 
off  to  some  distance.  He  lazily  watched  ^he 
two,  thinking  how  the  dark,  gypsy-lik(  e 
of  the  cobbler's  child  set  off  that  oi  his  damty 
Pauline,  who  ate  slowly  and  sparingly,  with 
that  peculiar  grace  she  lent  to  every  action. 
She  helped  little  Mary  before  herself  to  cake, 
choosing  out  the  very  nicest  ones  for  her. 
Mary  had  never  tasted  ice-cream  before,  and 
the  coldness  of  it  puzzled  her  at  first,  but, 
encouraged  by  Pauline's  example,  she  took  to 
it  very  kindly,  and  soon  made  an  end  of  the 
pink-and-white  mound. 

"  We'll  take  a  stroll  down  to  the  animals/' 


■P 


The  Afternoon  at  tlie  Park. 


5a 


said  Mr.  Archer  next,  "  and  after  that  well 
move  homewards." 

So  they  went  down  to  the  enclosures  where 
the  dj-er  were  kept.  Mild-eyed  fawns  came 
to  the  railing  and  thrust  out  their  heads  to 
be  petted.  Pauline,  who  had  a  natural  sym- 
pathy with  all  living  things  and  seemed  to 
draw  them  towards  her.  stroked  their  heads, 
accompanying  her  action  with  softly  spoken, 
endearing  words,  while  little  Mary  looked  on 
with  breathless  interest  The  great  stags, 
with  shining  horns,  held  aloof  in  their  stately 
fashion,  and  Piuline,  looking  at  them,  said 
to  her  companion: 

"  Mamma  told  me  that  once  there  was  a 
saint  who  went  out  hunting — I  think  it  was 
before  he  was  a  saint,  perhaps;  and  just  when 
he  was  goino:  to  shoot  the  deer,  he  saw  a  cross 
between  its  liorns.  So  he  didn't  kill  that  one, 
and  he  never  shot  any  more." 

"  What's  a  deer  ?  "  whispered  Mary. 

"That,"  said  Pauline;  and  Mary,  open- 
mouthed,  looked  at  the  tall  stag,  with  its 
wonderful  horns,  upon  which  Pauline  also 
fixed  her  blue  eyes,  saying: 

''Aren't  boms  strange  ?  It  »flust  be  terrible 
to  have  such  heavy  ones  on  your  head."    . 


II 
IJ 


\''l 


mm 


\i 


P^ 


91  The  Afternoon  at  IJiP.  Park. 

Pauline  took  little  Mary's  hand  as  Mr. 
Archer  hurried  them  on  to  the  monkey-house, 
where  the  smaller  child  laughed  so  explosively 
that  Mr.  Archer  almost  thought  of  suppressing 
her,  as  he  said,  but  it  wp.s  a  pity  to  spoil  sport, 
and,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  ? 

"  That  s  a  very  old  cne  ^^er  there,"  said 
Pauline  in  her  8\<yir,  deliberate  speech. 
"  Perhaps  he's  a  hundred." 

"  There's  a  tinv  little  one,"  said  Mary. 

*^  Aren't  their  faces  ju3t  hideous  ?  They 
look  like  dirty  old  men." 

One  of  the  monkeys  put  out  a  long  paw 
and  seized  a  lock  of  Mary's  hair,  pulling  out 
two  or  three  hairs,  which  he  seemed  to  ex- 
amine curiously.  Mary  screamed  with  de- 
light, her  lauyh,  with  its  ringing  cadence, 
being  heard  all  over  the  building,  and  pro- 
voking many  a  smile  from  the  bystanders. 

*'  She's  having  a  good  lime  and  no  mis- 
take,"  said  a  man  in  passing  Mr.  Archer. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  that,"  replied 
Keginald  Archer  genially. 

The  elephants  were  even  a  greater  joy  to 
both  the  liitle  girls.  What  cWld,  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  hasn't  loved  elephants  ? 
Their  huge  stature  and  bulk,  their  funny, 


'.iti 


mi 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


55 


twinkling  eyes,  lost  in  fit,  but  yet  so  wise  and 
far-seeing,  their  ever-active  trirnK,  are  torever 
fascinating  to  the  tiny  mortals,  who  stand  be- 
fore them  as  ants  in  presence  of  those  great 
moving  mountains.  Mr.  Archer  had  brought 
from  the  restaurant  where  they  had  eaten  ice- 
cream a  tew  appies  and  nuts,  lie  knew  it 
would  amuse  his  young  companions  to  bestow 
those  upon  the  mighty  beasts,  that  rejoiced 
in  such  things  as  though  they  were  so  many 
school- boys.  The  result  was  that  he  found 
it  rather  hard  to  get  Pauline  and  'lary  away 
from  the  delightful  performance.  The  ele- 
phant's trunk  found  its  way  into  each  of  their 
pockets  in  turn,  and  deftly  produced  thence 
a  few  nuts  or  half  an  apple. 

But  at  last  they  had  to  say  good-by  to  the 
elephants,  and  hurry  on  past  foxes  and  pec- 
caries and  growling  beais  and  wolves  and 
leopards  and  hyenas  and  giraffes,  till  they 
came  to  the  tigers  and  lions.  At  the  very 
moment  of  their  approach  one  of  the  largest 
of  the  monarchs  of  the  forest  slowly  raised 
himself  and,  lashing  his  tail,  gave  vent  to  a 
fearful  roar,  which  shook  the  enclosure  and 
was  echoed  up  among  the  neighboring  rocks. 
Little  Mary  hid  her  face  in  Pauline's  skirls* 


If.!* 

m 


i 


:l 


W  '  'ft' 


if- 


f 


56 


■'A  ' 


N 


i 


i 


r!| 


11^ 


1^  ' 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


and  wept.  She  seemed  to  think  that  the  roar 
was  specially  addressed  to  her,  and  the  sight 
of  the  terrible  animal  in  his  rage  Med  her 
with  terror. 

Pauline  stood  erect  before  him,  her  blue 
eyes  half  closed  in  he^  mtent  gaze,  which  the 
beast  returned  uneasily,  be  ^^^ning  to  pace 
up  and  down  in  disquietua..  Pauline  was 
charmed  by  the  great  flowing  mane  and  noble 
pose,  and  was  not  at  all  afraid  of  him.  She 
tried  to  comfort  Mary. 

"He  isn't  angry  at  us,''  she  said.  "He 
must  have  got  angry  at  something  before  we 
came,  because  we  didn't  go  very  near  him 
or  do  aD3rthing  to  him." 

It  tickled  Reginald  Archer's  sense  of  humor 
to  think  of  tiny  Mary  or  diminutive  Pauline 
rousing  the  lion  to  fury. 

Very  likely  he's  hungry,"  he  said  briefly. 
Probably  he  is,"  said  Pauline  thought- 
fully; and  she  said  afterwards  to  Mary  that 
she  was  rather  glad  he  wasn't  angry  at  them, 
even  though  he  couldn't  get  out. 

"  He's  ter'ble,"  said  little  Mary,  venturing, 
however,  another  look  at  him,  but  swiftly 
hiding  her  face  again. 

"  He  looks  a  good  deal  like  a  king,"  said 


« 


ii 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


67 


Pauline,  "  a  very  great  king.  I'm  sure  he 
liked  it  a  great  deal  better  wiien  he  was  m  the 
forest  than  in  a  cage.  It  must  be  awful  to  be 
in  a  cage.  And  even  when  he  wants  to  roar, 
BO  many  people  hear  him." 

This  thought  seemed  peculiarly  distasteful 
to  Pauline  as  she  followed  her  father  silently 
in  the  direction  of  the  hippopotamuses.  Little 
Mary  held  on  very  tight  to  Pauline's  hand, 
looking  back  every  once  in  a  while  to  be  sure 
that  the  lion  wasn't  after  them.  When  they 
reached  the  edge  of  the  artificial  pond,  the 
keepers  were  trying  to  drive  the  huge  beasts 
up  out  of  the  water  to  be  fed.  Little  Mary 
was  rather  disposed  to  be  afraid  of  these,  too, 
with  their  uncouth  forms  and  discordant 
grunts.  But  after  a  time  she  became,  like 
Pauline,  interested  in  observing  the  efforts  of 
the  men  to  make  them  come  to  the  surface. 

"  Oh,  there's  his  back  now  I "  cried  she  in 
glee,  as  the  keepers  resorted  to  the  device  of 
letting  the  water  out  of  the  tank. 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows  that  the  water's 
going  out,"  observed  Pauline;  "  he  imagines 
there's  plenty  of  it." 

"  There  he  is  ! "  cried  Mary,  as  one  of  the 
creatures  went  wobbling  up  the  broad  plank, 


'■in 

m 


it 


w 


58 


The  Afternoon  at  the  Park. 


grunting  discontentedly.  He  was  presently 
comforted,  however,  by  pitchforkfuls  of  hay, 
thrust  into  his  mouth  by  an  attendant. 

"  It's  a  wonder  he  wouldn't  rather  stay  up 
on  land,"  said  Pauline.  "I'd  just  hate  to 
live  in  the  water;  wouldn't  you,  Mary  ?  " 

Mary  nodded  her  head  several  times  to  show 
her  entire  agreement  with  the  sentiment. 

"  She  has  your  trick  of  nodding,"  remarked 
Mr.  Archer  to  Pauline.  "  I  must  buy  you  a 
mandarin  that  you  may  see  how  absurd  it 
se3ms."  He  had  begun  to  be  a  trifle  weary  of 
the  day's  sport,  and  looked  at  his  watch  fre^ 
quently.  He  now  suggested  that  it  was  time 
to  take  the  car,  and  led  the  way  towards  one 
of  the  exit«. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


.11 


THE    SAME    STORY   DIFFERENTLY   TOLD. 


That  evening  the  cobbler  and  Mrs.  Archer 
each  received  a  version  of  the  dav's  adven- 
tures.  Through  the  thoughtfulness  of  the 
latter,  Rebecca  had  been  sent  down  that 
Mary's  father  might  no^  be  anxious  about  his 
daughter's  long  absence.  So  he  sat  there, 
listening  to  what  Mary  had  to  tell,  as  he 
stitched  busily  away  at  a  pair  of  shoes,  the 
payment  for  whi^h  was  to  buy  their  dinner 
for  the  morrow. 

The  child's  description  was  necessarily  im- 
perfect and  disjointed.  She  had  few  words 
at  her  com  nand  and  could  not  remember  the 
big  ones,  while  she  was  ignorant  of  the  names 
of  many  of  the  animals  and  other  things  she 
had  seen.  But  there  had  been  a  time  in  the 
cobbler's  life  when  he,  a  merry  boy,  had  spent 
long,  hilarious  days  there,  playing  with  the 
zest  of  a  healtby,  cheerful  lad.    Of  course 

W 


% 


m 


'm 


m 


60         Tlie  Same  Story  Differently  Told. 


I 


%.■■ 

1::: 


f 


hj 


It 


m 


there  were  many  new  attractions  added  to 
those  which  in  his  boyhood  had  made  the  Park 
"  a  joy  forever,"  and  he  had  never  had  money 
to  go  boating  on  the  lake,  or  drive  in  the  ^bus, 
or  eat  ice-cream.  So  that  he  could  form  an 
idea  of  all  that  Mary  sought  to  tell,  and  enter 
into  her  feelings,  as  well  as  supply  many  a 
missing  link.  Big  lions  and  tiny  monkeys 
were  freely  mentioned,  but  Mary  was  wise 
enough  not  to  try  to  call  either  the  elephant 
or  the  hippopotamus  by  its  name.  The  former 
she  spoke  of  as  the  big,  big  one  who  put 
his  tongue  into  her  pocket,  and  the  latter  as 
another  big  one  that  lived  in  the  water  and 
didn't  want  to  come  up.  The  lake  and  the 
swans  brought  a  sympathetic  smile  to  the 
cobbler's  face.  Was  it  not  one  of  his  favorite 
amusements,  long  ago,  to  bring  crumbs  of 
bread  to  the  Park  to  feed  the  big  white 
swans  ?  And  although  he  heaved  a  sigh,  too, 
as  some  of  the  boy's  "  long,  long  thoughts  " 
came  back  to  him,  still  it  cheered  him  at  his 
work  to  think  of  those  pleasant  things,  and 
it  gladdened  him  to  know  that  little  Mary 
had  had  one  glorious  day  at  least. 

Pauline,  too,  by  her  story  of  that  happy 
holiday  afternoon  brightened  the  gloom  of 


The  Same  Story  Differently  Told.         61 


her  mother's  invalid  apartment.  It  brought 
pleasant  memories  to  Mrs.  Archer  as  she  lay 
and  listened.  Like  the  cobbler,  she,  too, 
went  back  to  the  days  of  her  youth,  when  she 
used  to  ride  in  the  Park  on  a  particular  and 
dearly  loved  horse  which  her  father  had  given 
her  on  her  sixteenth  birthday.  This  remem- 
brance gave  her  a  very  much  keener  pleasure 
than  the  thought  of  the  later  times,  when, 
reclining  in  the  victoria,  she  had  been  borne 
along  in  the  stream  of  fashion,  a  part  of  its 
panorama-like  unreality.  Unreal  all,  she  re- 
flected, though  she  said  no  word  of  this  to 
Pauline,  being  unwilling  to  lessen  the  child's 
pleasure  in  the  very  slightest  degree. 

"  And  how  did  little  Mary  enjoy  it  ?  "  Mrs. 
Archer  inquired. 

"Oh,  she  just  loved  it,"  said  Pauline.  "She 
had  never  been  to  a  park  before,  and  she 
thought  at  first  it  belonged  to  the  fairies." 

"  So  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  smiling. 

Pauline  was  puzzled.  Of  course  her  mother 
knew,  but  she  did  not  think  there  were  any 
real  fairies,  and  she  had  heard  her  father  saj 
that  the  Park  belonged  to  the  city. 

"The  fairies  of  youth  and  happiness,"  ei- 
plaiT^f^d  Mrs.  Archer. 


If 


■I 


it 
if 


h 


62        The  Same  Story  Differently  Told, 

"Oh,"  said  Pauline, resuming  her  narrative. 
"  We  both  put  our  feet  on  the  grass,  but  we 
didn't  wallt  there.  I  told  Mary  she  mustn't, 
because  she  didn't  know.  So  we  only  touched 
it.    I  wonder  what  makes  it  so  green.'' 

"  The  eame  Power  that  does  all  things  in 
nature,"  said  the  invalid. 

"  God  only  showed  the  men  how  to  make 
Central  Park,"  reasoned  Pauline. 

"  That's  all,"  said  Mrs.  Archer.  "  But  the 
best  part  of  it  is  His  own  work.  The 
men  couldn't  make  trees  or  grass  or  flowers, 
nor  place  the  sky  overhead  with  its  shining 
8un. 


f> 


"Wouldn't  it  be  queer  if  there  was  no  sky  ?" 
said  Pauline,  trying  to  conjure  up  a  picture 
in  her  own  mind. 

"  Very  queer  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Archer, 
laughing; "  it  would  be  something  like  a  house 
without  a  roof,  and  a  dark  house  at  that. 
Bui  tell  me  some  more  about  your  wonderful 
doings.    I  want  to  hear  everything." 

"  We  went  to  see  the  animals,"  said  Pauline, 
"  but  not  until  after  we  had  sailed  around  the 
lake,  and  ridden  on  the  donkeys,  and  driven 
in  the  goat-carriages.  The  goats  ran  along 
very  quickly  with  us;  they  didn't  seem  to  find 


The  Same  Story  Differently  Told.         63 


ns  very  heavy.  But  the  boys  who  were  driv- 
ing ran  just  as  fast.  Then  we  got  ice-cream, 
and  some  time  afterwards  we  began  to  go 
round  the  menagerie.  We  liked  the  ele- 
phants and  monkeys  best,  but  the  lion 
was  very  proud  and  grand,  and  he  roared  very 
loud.     It  was  terrible  to  hear  him. ' 

Pauline  had  not  yet  finished  her  detailed 
description  of  the  various  animals,  when  Mrs. 
Archer's  attendants  came  to  shut  out  the  last 
glimpse  of  day  and  turn  on  the  electric  light, 
softly  s'haded  for  the  invalid's  tired  eyes. 

So  Pauline  went  up  to  the  nursery,  where 
the  story  was  continued,  Rebecca  listening, 
nothing  loath,  as  curiosity  was  her  }.  xrticular 
weakness.  Pauline  embellished  her  narrative 
with  additions  which  her  innate  sense  of  pro- 
priety had  prevented  her  from  giving  in  the 
sick-room.  She  was  always  gentle  and  quiet 
there,  and  spoke  in  her  distinct  but  softly 
modulated  voice.  Mrs.  Archer  used  to  say 
that  it  rested  her  to  have  her  near  or  hear  her 
talk.  So  she  reserved  for  her  nurse's  steady 
nerves,  and  ears  attuned  to  nurseiy  noises, 
an  imitation  of  the  various  beasts,  the  growl- 
ing of  the  bears,  the  laughing  of  the  hyena, 
and  even  the  roar  of  the  lion„ 


J; 


m 


64         Hie  Same  Story  Differently  Told. 


14; 

Up 


if" 

fi 


**  He  went  this  way,"  she  said,  swelling  out 
her  chest,  throwing  back  her  head,  and  pulling 
out  her  hair  to  simulate  a  mane.  When  the 
turn  of  the  hippopotamus  came,  Pauline  gave 
60  graphic  an  illustration  of  that  huge  animal 
crawling,  tumbling,  waddling  up  to  the  land 
and  snatching  mouth fuls  of  hay  from  the 
pitchfork  that  Rebecca  at  length  begged  her 
to  stop. 

"  Fve  a'most  split  my  sides  laughin*,"  she 
said.  "  You  stop,  or  you'll  give  me  a  right- 
down  pain  there.'* 

Pauline  was  beginning  to  be  rather  tired 
herself,  so  she  presently  permitted  Rebecca  to 
help  her  to  undress  and  to  tuck  her  into  bed. 

"I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  up  in 
heaven,"  Pauline  said,  with  one  of  the  sudden 
changes  of  mood  that  drove  the  prosaic  nurse 
nearly  to  distraction.  "  But  we'll  only  know 
when  we're  dead." 

"  Sich  a  child  ! "  said  Rebecca  testily.  She 
did  not  want  to  be  reminded  of  such  unpleas- 
ant truths.  In  reading  her  Bible  she  usually 
picked  out  what  she  called  "  the  cheerfuUest 
parts  " — ^those  that  gave  her  a  pleasant  sense 
of  her  own  righteousness  and  did  not  dwell 
too  muc^h  on  what  was  to  come. 


I] 


The  Same  Story  Differently  Told.         65 


N 


"  Wait ! "  said  Pauline,  suddenly  springing 
up,  just  as  Rebecca  had  got  her  securely 
tucked  in.  "  I  forgot  my  new  prayer  to  Holy 
Mary." 

This  was  the  Memorarc,  which  she  had  but 
lately  learned.  She  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  more  than  ever  like  an  angel  in  her 
white  gown  and  flowing  hair,  as  she  folded 
her  hands  and  fixed  her  earnest  eyes  on  the 
statue. 

Rebecca  turned  away,  moving  about  the 
room,  opening  and  shutting  drawers  and  keep- 
ing her  back  to  Pauline,  as  she  always  did 
when  the  child  was  at  prayer. 

Pauline,  standing  up,  gave  a  few  touches 
to  the  vases  of  flowers  which  she  had  put 
upon  the  shelf  in  front  of  the  statue  that 
morning. 

**  I  wonder  if  Holy  Mary  has  stars  for  bar 
crown  up  in  heaven,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  you're  always  wondering  about  some- 
thing, and  I  wish  you'd  get  into  bed  again.'' 

Pauline  did  so,  Rebecca  repeating  the  cere- 
mony of  tucking  her  in  with  rather  vicious 
jerks. 

"  Now  don't  you  get  up  out  of  there  for 
nothing,"  said  the  nurse. 


If 


It'* 


■N 


it 
if 


66         The  Same  Story  Differently  Told. 

"  I  won't  get  up  again,"  promised  Pauline. 
"Good-night,  Rebecca." 

The  little  voice  sounded  somewhat  muffled 
from  under  the  coverlet,  and  presently  the 
nurse,  bending  over  her  charge,  saw  that  the 
long  lashes  were  lying  softly  on  the  fair 
cheeks,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  hidden  in 
sleep. 


5ri- 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LITTLE  Mary's  last  visit. 

Some  of  the  Archers'  wealthy  acquaint- 
ances, and  notably  Mr.  Arcliei''s  sister,  who 
had  recently  returned  to  town  with  her 
daughters,  were  greatly  shocked  when  they 
chanced  to  hear  of  Pauline's  fancy  for  little 
Mary  Kelly. 

"  Of  course  I  understand,"  said  his  sister, 
*•  that  dear  Ada  is  so  much  of  an  invalid  that 
your  poor  child  is  left  very  much  to  the  care 
of  nurses  and  must  contract  odd  ways.  But 
are  you  not  very  imprudent,  Re^mald,  to  per- 
mit such  an  intimacy  ?  In  the  first  place,  one 
never  knows  what  infectious  diseases  children 
of  that  sort  may  bring  about  the  house." 

"  The  young  cobbler,"  said  Reginald,  laugh- 
ing, "  is  as  sturdy  as  a  colt  so  far.  She  looks 
much  stronger  than  Pauline." 

"  But  that  apart,"  continued  the  worldly- 
wise  matron,  "  isn't  it  a  little  dreadful  to  have 
Pauline  playing  with  creatures  out  of  a  cellar? 
Really  it  is  hard  to  tell  what  they  may  be  like 
in  any  way." 


1 


I 

I" 


?      1 


68 


ii^fZe  Mary^s  Last  Visit. 


ii 


Oh,  she's  a  mere  infant,  and  well  behaved 
they  tell  me,"  said  Reginald. 

"  It  might  be  even  an  undesirable  connec- 
tion hereafter,"  added  the  mentor,  "  when 
Pauline  '3  grown  up  and  going  out.  What  if 
the  girl  were  to  presume  on  this  childish 
friendship  ?  " 

Keginald  Archer  laughed  outright.  The 
idea  of  poor  little  Mary  advancing  any  such 
claim  appealed  to  his  keen  sense  of  humor. 
He  had  mentioned  the  circumstance  to  his 
sister  as  a  curious,  childish  freak  on  Pauline's 
part,  and  his  wife's  relatives  had  been  both 
amused  and  interested  when  tbey  heard  of  it. 
So  that,  despite  his  laughter,  he  was  rather 
annoyed,  and  his  tone  had  a  note  of  sharp- 
ness in  it  as  he  said: 

"  How  absurd,  Lulu  !  You  fashionable 
women  are  too  ridiculous,  always  taking  fright 
at  shadows.  Why,  later  on,  I  intend  to  take 
Pauline  abroad,  and  this  little  waif  will  dis- 
appear out  of  her  life  more  completely  than 
the  pigeon  they  feed  together." 

He  was  a  truer  prophet  than  he  knew  at 
the  time.  His  sister,  silent  but  unconvinced, 
tapped  with  the  pointed  toe  of  her  Parisian 
slipper  as  Reginald  continued  to  defend  his 


Little  Mary's  Last  Visit, 


e9 


course,  but  not  upon  the  higher  grounds 
which  his  more  refined  wife  would  have  taken. 

"  Why,  think  how  many  interests  come  into 
every  child's  life  and  pass  out  again;  and  our 
little  one  has  been  rather  lonely.  In  fact,  her 
mother  was  getting  a  bit  anxious  about  her, 
and  I  think  she  was  glad  when  she  took  so 
amazingly  to  this  little  mite." 

"  Does  her  mother  know  ?  "  asked  his  sister. 
"  Oh,  then,  of  course  there's  no  more  to  be 
said." 

He  quite  understood  the  peculiar  intona- 
tion and  the  even  more  expressive  changing 
of  the  subject  immediately,  and  it  vexed  him 
unreasonably.  There  had  never  been  any 
sympathy  between  the  sisters-in-law.  Mrs. 
Archer's  unvarying  courtesy  and  gentleness 
had  never  warmed  into  cordiality  with  the 
L  isk,  somewhat  bustling  matron,  who  had  but 
one  thought — 'how  best  to  advance  herself  and 
her  daughters  in  the  world.  Their  standards 
were  different,  their  aims  very  far  apart,  and 
Reginald's  sister  regarded  her  brother's  wife 
as  somewhat  peculiar  and  far  too  unworldly. 

"  Ada's  a  sweet  creature,"  she  used  to  say 
to  her  intimates,  "  but  she  cares  nothing  at  ail 
for  society.    I  do  think  on  Reginald's  account 


;i 


(  il 


Hi 


\\ 


N 


ro 


Little  Mary^a  Last  Visit. 


!i 


41 


she  ought  to  make  more  effort  than  she  does. 
I'm  sure  he  regrets  it,  for  he  is  of  such  a 
social  nature,  though  he's  the  soul  of  loyalty 
and  wouldn't  find  fault  with  his  wife  for  the 
world." 

When  Ada's  chronic  ill  health  had  made 
social  life  an  impossibility,  her  sister-in-law 
Ibewailed  the  husband'^  fate  still  more  fre- 
quently. So,  although  his  sister  pursued  the 
subject  no  farther,  Reginald  could  read  her 
thoughts.  He  even  understood  the  motive 
which  prompted  his  sister  presently  to  say: 

"  You  must  bring  Pauline  here  very  often 
now.  Her  cousins  will  enjoy  having  her,  and 
I'm  sure  it  will  be  a  treat  to  the  child.  She 
has  been,  as  you  say,  so  much  alone  and  is 
liable  to  grow  up  peculiar.  Besides,  it  will 
be  a  preparation  for  later  on.  She  will  make 
suitable  acquaintances  and  acquire  something 
of  a  society  manner.  Poor  Ada's  health  will 
put  her  at  such  a  disadvantage,  and  it  has 
kept  you  both  out  of  everything  these  last 
years." 

Engrossed  as  Reginald  Archer  was  with  the 
things  that  make  for  material  prosperity,  his 
perceptions  were  not  so  much  blunted  that  he 
could  desire  formation  for  his  little  Pauline 


Little  Mary's  Last  Visit 


71 


after  tlie  model  of  those  two  very  advanced 
youDg  ladies,  his  nieces.  They  were  sitting 
in  the  cushioned  recesses  of  the  window  at 
the  moment,  carrying  on  a  very  spirited  con- 
versation with  a  young  male  visitor.  Their 
discourse,  which  was  pitched  in  a  somewhat 
high  key,  was  interrupted  by  peals  of  laugh- 
ter, or  by  a  variety  of  exclamations  and  a 
profusion  of  epithets.  Everything  was  in  a 
superlative  degree.  They  never  laughed, 
according  to  their  own  account  of  things,  but 
shrieked  or  howled  ;  they  never  cried,  but 
biiwled. 

"  No,"  thought  Reginald  Archer  to  himself 
w^ith  some  bitterness,  "  the  cobbler's  child  is 
preferable  as  a  companion.  Her  influence 
would  be  negative,  this  other  positive." 

When  he  rose  to  take  his  leave  he  remarked 
that  the  doctor  promised,  if  Ada  kept  as  well 
as  she  then  was,  to  let  them  go  South  for  the 
winter. 

"  Have  you  decided  where  ? "  his  sister 
asked. 

"  Either  Florida  or  Bermuda,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  Either  will  be  delightful.  "But  you  must 
really  come  as  often  as  possible,  and  bring 


u 


a 


Little  Mary's  Last  Visit. 


1- 
i 


Pauline  with  you.    We  don't  see  half  enough 
of  each  other." 

She  was  really  fond  of  her  brother,  this 
ambitious  society  woman,  and  his  wife  had 
come  of  an  extremely  good  family,  so  that 
they  were  very  desirable  connections. 

"  I  will  bring  Pauline  over  some  day  soon 
to  luncheon,"  he  said;  "it  will  be  a  change 
for  her." 

"  Any  time  you  like.  We  are  nearly  al- 
ways here  at  luncheon  about  this  season  of  the 
year." 

Reginald  exchanged  a  few  words  with  his 
nieces,  who  effusively  echoed  their  mother's 
invitation.  He  walked  home  in  a  very  dis- 
satisfied mood.  His  sister  had  made  him  feel 
that  he  was  very  hardly  treated  by  fortune. 
She  had,  as  it  were,  catalogued  his  grievances. 
His  wife  ill,  his  child  neglected,  and  he  him- 
self kept  out  of  congenial  society  by  unto- 
ward events.  There  was  no  one  to  blame,  and 
that  rather  added  to  his  annoyance.  He  could 
not  complain  of  Ada.  She  had  been  the  best 
of  wives,  and  he  dared  not  disturb  the  en- 
forced quiet  of  the  sick-room  by  any  allusion 
to  his  woes.  Nor  could  he  find  fault  with 
Pauline.     So  that,  having  no  confidant  and 


{ 


Little  Mary' 8  Last  Visit, 


78 


no  scapegoat,  his  ill  humor  grew  with  every 
step  he  took  in  the  homeward  direction. 

As  he  approached  his  own  house  he  saw 
that  Pauline,  quite  unconscious  of  his  dis- 
pleasure, sat  upon  the  steps,  playing  at  dolls 
with  little  Mary  Kelly.  His  brow  darkened, 
and  passing  the  two  children  without  a  word, 
he  entered  the  house,  shutting  the  door  with 
a  bang.  He  threw  his  gloves  upon  the  library 
table  impatiently,  and  hung  up  his  hat  with 
the  air  of  a  martjrr.  After  which  he  rang  the 
boll  for  Rebecca,  and  ordered  her  to  bring 
Pauline  in  and  send  the  other  child  home. 

"  It's  much  too  late  in  the  afternoon  for 
Miss  Pauline  to  be  out,"  he  said  irritably.  "  I 
wonder  you  don't  look  after  her  a  little  more.'* 

"  Fm  to  tell  the  child  that's  with  her  to  go 
home,"  said  Rebecca,  overlooking  the  rebuke 
for  the  moment,  and  secretly  glad  of  an  op- 
portunity to  gratify  her  dislike  of  the  cob- 
bler's daughter.  With  the  quickness  of  her 
class  she  caught  some  inkling  of  w'hat  was  in 
her  master's  mind,  and  said  impressively: 

"  1  didn't  never  think,  Mr.  Archer,  that  it 
was  just  the  right  thing  to  have  that  little  one 
coming  here,  but  Miss  Pauline  she  wanted  her 
and—" 


If 


s 


hi 
III 


74 


ZriY^/e  Mary^s  Last  Visit. 


"Never  mind  that  now,"  said  Reginald, 
waving  his  hand  impatiently,  "  it's  time  for 
the  child  to  go  home  and  for  Miss  Pauline  to 
come  in.    That's  all." 

Rebecca,  huffed  at  his  manner  and  disap- 
pointed that  he  had  declined  to  discuss  the 
subject  with  her,  opened  the  door  and  went 
out  to  the  children.  She  revenged  herself  for 
her  late  snubbing  by  an  additional  accent  of 
severity  in  her  voice  as  she  addressed  the  in- 
nocent object  of  her  dislike.  Her  face  at  the 
moment,  too,  was  so  cross  and  forbidding  in 
expression  that  little  Mary  felt  inclined  to  cry 
as  soon  as  she  looked  at  her, 

"  You  take  your  hat  and  go  home,"  she  said 
to  the  little  girl.  "  You  ought  to  have  been 
gone  home  long  ago,  instead  of  being  under 
Mr.  Archer's  feet  when  he  got  home." 

"  She  wasn't  under  his  feet,"  said  the  truth- 
ful Pauline;  "  she  was  away  over  here,  and  I 
don't  think  papa  even  noticed  she  was  there." 

"  Didn't  he,  though  ! "  said  Rebecca  with 
malicious  triumph,  "  and  he  ringing  the  bell 
till  I  thought  he  was  going  to  break  it.  What 
for,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Pauline. 

"  To  get  me  to  send  her  home." 


ii' 


m 

'^i\ 


Idttle  Mary's  Last  Visit. 


71 


Pauline's  face  grew  crimson  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair.  She  felt  the  slight  to  her  playmate 
as  though  it  had  been  to  herself,  but  she  could 
not  think  of  a  word  to  say.  Little  Mary 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  not  fully  un- 
derstanding what  was  said.  But,  frightened 
by  Jlebecca's  looks,  she  began  to  put  on  her  hat. 

"  Yes,  you  go  straightway  home,"  added 
Eebecca. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  rude  ?  "  said  Pauline, 
suddenly  turning  upon  her  nurse,  with  a 
stamp  of  her  little  foot.  "  Mary's  going  now, 
and  if  you  don't  let  her  alone  I'll  tell 
mamma." 

Rebecca  well  knew  that  nothing  would  have 
more  seriously  displeased  her  mistress  than 
what  she  had  just  done.  Besides,  the  flash  in 
Pauline's  eyes  told  her  that  she  must  not  go 
too  far. 

"  You'd  better  talk  to  your  papa  about  it," 
she  said,  turning  to  go  in.  "  See  what  he 
says." 

Poor  little  Mary's  lip  trembled  and  she  be- 
gan to  cry.  They  had  been  interrupted  in  a 
glorious  game  of  dolls  by  this  cross  woman 
who  had  told  her  to  go  away.  She  let  her 
head  hang  down,  as  was  her  habit,  till  her 


■  t; 


;>V' 


n 


Little  Mary^s  Ztaat  Visit. 


li 


If 


If 


ill! 


hair,  falling  over  her  face,  hid  her  tears,  as 
she  began  slowly  to  descend  the  steps,  carry- 
ing her  own  poor  paintless  doll  with  her. 
Pauline  took  her  hand  and  walked  down  be- 
side her  to  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"  Don't  cry,  Mary,"  she  said  gently. 
"  Sometimes  Rebecca  is  cross  to  me,  but  1 
don't  mind." 

Pauline,  but  for  her  father's  commanc'  to 
come  into  the  house,  would  have  walked  part 
of  the  way  with  her  disconsolate  friend.  But 
she  watched  the  tiny  figure  making  its  way 
slowly  down  the  street  in  its  shabby  dress, 
pausing  every  once  in  a  while  to  wipe  its 
eyes  with  its  pinafore.  Once  the  tear-stained 
face  was  turned  backwards,  as  little  Mary 
stood  still  to  look  at  her  friend  standing  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun. 

"  You  must  come  to-morrow,  surely,"  called 
out  Pauline. 

The  child  smiled  through  her  tears  and 
walked  on. 

Little  Mary  did  not  come  next  day.  In 
fact,  her  tiny  feet  never  came  up  that  street 
again.  You  may  reet  in  peace,  you  over-re- 
spectable nurse  and  you  irritable  father.  The 
cobbler's  child  will  trouble  you  no  more. 


n 


'rs 


Little  Mary's  Last  Visit.  7T 

But  Pauline,  for  the  first  time  in  her  short 
life,  stood  before  her  father  fearlessly  and 
made  complaint  of  her  nurse. 

"  She  was  cruel  to  little  Mary  and  made  her  ^ 

cry,"  she  began,  "  and  she  said  that  you  told  '  •* 

her  to  do  it,  and  I  don't  believe  it."  i  v 

"  I  said  something  about  it  being  too  late  ,         ^' 

for  either  of  you  to  be  out,"  Mr.  Archer  said  -^ 

uneasily.  ' 

There  was  something  which  abashed  him 
in  the  flash  of  the  blue  eyes,  usually  so  gentle, 
in  the  indignation  which  blazed  out  of  the 
ordinarily  quiet  face.  The  affront  which  had 
been  put  upon  her  playmate  and  in  her  com- 
pany had  evidently  wounded  her  to  the  heart. 
He  regretted  his  hasty  action,  the  more  so  that 
he  felt  the  child  was  right  and  that  the  hum- 
blest guest  should  be  treated  with  courtesy. 
But  her  resentment  against  Rebecca  was  not 
easily  soothed. 

"  If  she  had  told  her  politely  that  you  said 
it  was  rather  late  to  be  out,"  said  Pauline. 
And  Reginald  Archer,  as  a  result  of  this  con- 
versation, was  quite  convinced  that  there  were 
depths  in  the  child's  nature  which  he,  at  least, 
could  not  sound. 


If 


!s 


1)1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


WHY   LITTLE   MARY   DID   NOT   COME. 


'!■■ 


ii, 


i 


i  I 


Hi! 


When  two  or  three  days  had  passed  and 
little  Mary  did  not  appear,  Mrs.  Archer  re- 
quested Rebecca  to  go  and  inquire  what  was 
the  reason.  Pauline  had  not  said  much  to 
her  mother  of  the  unpleasant  nature  of  the 
child's  last  visit,  for  she  never  liked  to  tell 
her  anything  which  might  disturb  her.  But 
she  had  said  enough  to  make  Mrs.  Archer 
fancy  that  the  little  one  had  been  hurt  or 
wounded  in  some  way,  so  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  come  any  more,  or  else  that  the  cob- 
bler, hearing  of  it,  had  forbidden  Mary  to  re- 
peat her  visits. 

Pauline  was  privately  of  the  same  opinion, 
and  she  begged  that  she  might  be  allowed  to 
accompany  Rebecca,  and  she  herself  speak  to 
Mary. 

Rebecca,  who  felt  somewhat  guilty  with  her 
mistress's  clear  gaze  fixed  upon  her  face,  un- 


i\ 


Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Cwne.         79 


(lertook  the  task,  nevertheless  with  reluctance. 
She  regarded  little  Mar/s  non-appcurance  in 
the  light  of  a  good  riddance. 

As  they  reached  the  head  of  the  cellar  steps, 
Eebecca  going  first,  Pauline  remarked  bow 
Btill  it  seemed  to  be  below.  There  were  no 
sounds  of  tacking  or  stitching,  nor  of  little 
Mary  talking  at  her  play.  Scarcely  had  Re- 
becca gone  down  two  or  three  steps  when  the 
cobbler  came  out  of  the  darkness.  Catching 
eight  of  Pauline,  he  cried  out  hoarsely: 

"  For  God's  sake  take  her  away  1  Don't  let 
Iter  come  here,  whatever  you  do." 

Pauline  stood  still  on  the  upper  step,  terri- 
fied. Why  should  the  cobbler  cry  out  to  her 
to  go  away  ?  She  had  always  tried  to  be  kind 
to  little  Mary,  and  had  invented  many  little 
pleasures  for  her.  Even  if  Mary  had  told  him 
what  Rebecca  had  said,  surely  she  was  not  to 
blame.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  the 
next  words  explained: 

"  My  little  Mary  has  the  fever,  and  the  doc- 
tor says  she  may  not  live  through  the  night." 

With  something  between  a  sigfi  and  a  groan 
the  cobbler  disappeared  into  the  dajkneea, 
whence  his  haggaxd  face  had  emerged  for  an 
inatant. 


80 


Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come. 


IHV* 

m 
i 


'U 


7' 

''M    'II 


Pauline,  still  standing  and  looking  after 
him,  heard,  as  Rebecca  came  up  to  hurry  her 
away,  a  faint,  childish  voice  saying: 

"  Oh,  daddy,  it's  the  little  lady.  So  bright ! 
Is  she  a  fairy,  daddy  ?  " 

In  after  years  Pauline  sometimes  thought 
that  she  might  liave  imagined  this,  that  it  was 
but  the  echo  of  the  words  that  had  been 
spoken  on  bf^r  first  visit  to  the  cobbler^s 
abode.  But  now  she  walked  home  awe- 
Btricken  by  what  she  had  heard,  the  nurse 
anxious  and  flurried — ^to  do  her  justice,  more 
on  account  of  her  charge  than  of  herself.  She 
waa  deeply  sihocked,  moreover,  for  death  is  as 
awful  in  a  cellar  as  in  a  palace,  and  her  con« 
science  smote  her  for  her  late  unkindness  to 
the  little  creature  who  was  so  soon  to  pass 
away  from  all  their  lives. 

Pauline  was  awe-stricken,  but  not,  as  yet, 
deeply  grieved.  It  is  difficult  for  a  child  to 
realize  w'hat  death  is,  or  to  believe  that  it  can 
possibly  come  to  one  she  holds  dear.  Far- 
reac'hing  as  the  little  girl's  thoughts  often 
were,  she  could  not  picture  little  Mary  cold 
and  still,  as  she  had  once  seen  a  canary-bird. 
That  incident  had  been  long  remembered,  and 
gave  her  even  yet  a  thrill  of  pain  when  it  re- 


\'i 


Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come.         81 


curred  to  her  mind.  Grave  as  she  looked 
walking  by  Itebecca's  side,  she  had  almost  per- 
suaded herself,  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
door,  that  little  Mary  would  soon  be  well 
again  and  coming  to  play  with  her. 

Mrs.  Archer  caused  fruit  and  jellies  and 
other  delicacies  to  be  sent  down,  and  even  the 
careless  Ileginald,  smitten  like  Rebecca  with 
remorse,  sent  privately  to  oti'er  the  shoemaker 
some  financial  assistance  if  it  became  neces- 
sary. One  day,  when  some  delicacies  had  been 
sent,  a  message  was  returned  that  little  Mary 
no  longer  needed  them. 

"  Then  she  will  be  able  to  play  with  me 
soon,"  said  PauJine,  not  understanding  the 
nature  of  the  communication. 

"  No,  dear,  little  Mary  will  not  be  coming 
to  play  with  you  any  more,"  said  Mrs.  Archer. 

"  Why,  mamma  ?  "  asked  Pauline,  thinking 
vaguely  of  her  father's  displeased  expression 
and  her  nurse's  curt  dismissal  of  her  play- 
mate. 

"  Because  God  has  taken  her  to  Himself/' 
said  Mrs.  Archer. 

Pauline's  sensitive  nature  was  completely 
overcome  for  the  moment.  She  had  grown  to 
feel  a  real  affection  for  her  small  playiellow, 


I  1 


I         i 


\h 


ill 


^'  III 


.      !ll|. 


82  Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come. 

and  remembered  now  the  little  figure  and  the 
sad,  tear-atained  face  turned  towards  her  for 
the  last  time,  with  an  intensity  of  grief  which 
alarmed  her  mother. 

"  Pauline,  my  dearest  Pauline,"  she  said, 
"  doesn't  God  know  beat  ?  He  has  taken  little 
Mary  from  a  cellar  to  His  own  bright  king- 
dom." 

The  attendant,  fearing  the  result  of  the 
child's  agitation  on  her  mother,  caused  her 
to  withdraw,  and  Mrs.  Archer,  left  alone;, 
pondeied  deeply  on  the  mystery  of  suffering 
which  this  life  can  never  solve.  She  thought 
of  the  childless  father  in  the  gloom  of  his  now 
Bolitary  cellar,  and  the  budding  existence  cut 
short,  while  her  own  was  spinning  itself  weari- 
ly along.  But  she  seemed  later  to  realize 
more  fully  the  depth  of  the  poor  cobbler's 
grief  from  the  description  which  Pauline  gave 
of  him.  He  appeared  to  liave  given  up  his 
work,  and  spent  much  of  his  time  walking 
up  and  dovm  on  the  far  side  of  the  street, 
looking  always  towards  tb^ir  house,  where 
his  little  Maiy  had  had  so  many  happ3' 
hours. 

"He  looks  very  old,"  Pauline  said  to  her 
mother,  "  and  all  gathered  up  together.    And 


Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come.         83 


there  are  places  in  his  face,  as  if  he  was  al- 
ways crying." 

Mrs.  Archer  thought  within  herself  that  it 
would  have  given  her  real  pleasure  to  have 
been  able  to  go  out  and  speak  a  few  words  of 
sympathy  and  hope  to  the  forlorn  cobbler. 
But  it  was  impossible. 

One  di\y,  as  he  passed,  Pauline  was  silting 
on  the  top  step,  with  her  doll  and  the  pigeon 
beside  her,  just  as  Mary  had  described,  lie 
fled  from  the  sight,  a  swift  pang  convulsing 
his  rugged  features  c.nd  a  sob  rising  to  his  lips. 
But  the  second  time  he  saw  her  he  stood  still, 
staring  at  the  little  girl  with  a  wistful  inten- 
sity. With  a  sudden  impulse  Pauline  arose 
and  crossed  the  street.  She  did  not  know 
very  well  what  to  say,  but  her  first  words  took 
the  form  of  a  whh. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  little  Mary  was  back,"  she  said 
earnestly,  the  tears  gathering  in  hor  eves. 

"  Don't  wish  that,"  said  the  cobbler  in  a 
hoarse  voice  wbich  somehow  did  not  startle 
Pauline.  "  Wliatever  you  wijih,  don't  wish 
that.  Wish  that  my  heart  would  stop  aching 
and  break  at  once,  but  don't  ask  her  back." 

Pauline's  blue  eyes  gazed  wondorinirlv  at 
him,  but  she  intuitively  felt  the  agony  which 


I. 
i  t 


84 


Tv   J  i'a..^  Mary  Did  Not  Come. 


I , '1 


was  wringing  his  strong  frame,  and  the  team, 
overflowing,  fell  down  her  cheeks  unchecked 
on  to  her  frock. 

"  God  bless  you,  little  miss  !  From  my 
heart  I  say  it,"  said  the  man,  trying  to  speak 
less  roughly.  "  You  gave  her  'most  all  the 
pleasure  she  ever  had.  I  did  what  I  could, 
but,  0  God,  she  lived  and  died  under  the 
street,  in  a  cellar  ! " 

"  But  she  went  to  heaven  just  as  quick," 
said  Pauline,  "  God  doesn't  care  where  people 
live." 

"  It's  the  only  hope  we  poor  have,"  the  man 
said.  "If  it  weren't  for  that,  how  coul''  '/• 
live  at  all,  at  all  ?  But  I'll  not  keep  you, 
missy,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause.  "I'm  no 
company  for  the  likes  of  you,  and  mebbe 
they'll  be  wanting  you  at  home,  as  I'm  want- 
ing my  little  Mary — and  she'll  never  come." 
He  turned  away  with  the  same  sharp  agony, 
so  like  despair. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Pauline,  "my 
mother's  sorry,  sorry.  If  she  cily  could  come 
out,  she  would  tell  you  so.  But  she  can't; 
Bhe's  always  ill." 

"  May  God  spare  her  to  you  I "  said  the 
man,  "  for  it  was  a  good  mother  gave  you  the 


1 1! 


Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  C<yme.         85 


m 


heart  you  have.  And  ehe  was  kind,  kind  in 
our  sore  trouble.  Tell  her  from  me  that 
there's  one  blessing  will  follow  her  day  and 
night,  and  that's  mine.  And  now  I'll  go.  Tm 
too  long  here  as  it  is." 

"  Good- by,"  said  Pauline,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

He  took  it,  and  wrung  it  hard  in  his  own 
rough  hand,  upon  which  one  of  the  little  girl's 
tears  fell  and  glistened  like  a  pearl.  He  went 
slowly  and  wistfully  away  after  that,  as  one 
who  does  not  very  well  know  w'here  he  is  go- 
ing or  what  he  means  to  do. 

Pauline  went  home,  saying  not  a  word  to 
her  nurse,  but  waiting  till  she  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  her  mother. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  him  to  pray  to  Holy  Mary, 
because  that  would  make  him  feel  better,"  she 
said,  "  but  I  was  ashamed;  and  1  think  he 
does  anyway,  because  he  taught  Mary  her 
prayers,  and  she  knew  them  very  well." 

"  Poor  man  !  poor  heart-broken  man  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Archer,  and  she  pictured  to  herself 
the  rough  shoemaker  teaching  the  tiny  crea- 
ture her  prayers  in  the  darkness  of  the  cellar. 
But  sympathetic  as  Mrs.  Archer  was,  she 
could  not  guess  at  half  the  pathos  of  the  sim- 


I'* 


SI 


86 


Way  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come, 


h 


If,. 


It  ' 


ii!i 


il! 


pie  life-story  so  tragically  ended  :  the  poor 
man's  anxious  contrivings  to  procure  for  his 
little  one  proper  food,  whatever  he  might  have 
himself;  his  ellorts  to  keep  her  from  the  rude 
jarring  of  life,  or  from  evil,  and  to  brighten 
the  eheerlessness  of  their  existence  by 
giving  her  glimpses  of  the  fairy  world 
of  the  imagmation,  which  had  come 
to  him  as  an  inheritance  from  the  green 
land  over  the  waters.  After  Pauline  had 
come  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  across  little 
Mary's  path,  the  cobbler's  endeavors  to  make 
her  decent  before  she  went  up  to  play  at  the 
big  house  were  full  of  pathos.  He  anxiously 
sorted  over  the  little  frocks,  and  put  a  stitch 
here  and  a  patch  there.  lie  combed  and  even 
curled  the  child's  hair  and  saw  that  her 
hands  and  face  were  clean.  All  this  had  been 
a  labor  of  love  to  him,  and  her  outings  made 
him  almost  as  happy  as  they  had  Mary.  He 
knew  that  she  was  safe  and  well  cared  for 
when  she  was  in  Pauline's  company,  and 
though  he  missed  her  at  odd  times,  still  he 
sang  or  whistled  at  his  work,  stitching  and 
tacking  energetically  all  the  time  ^ho  waa 
away,  and  looking  forward  to  her  return. 
When  it  was  near  time  he  would  begin  to 


4i'\ 


Why  Little  Mary  Did  Not  Come.         87 

listen,  till  at  last  he  heard  the  busy  little  feet 
pattering  on  the  pavement  and  descending  the 
steps,  while  the  childish  lips  were  fairly  over- 
flowing with  the  tale  she  had  to  tell.  He  had 
actually  saved  enough  to  get  her  a  new  dress 
and  a  hat  in  case  Pauline's  father  should  ever 
take  Mary  out  with  them  again.  For  the 
passing  freak  of  a  good-natured,  rich  man  had 
been  an  event  in  these  two  simple  lives.  The 
dress  was  now  hung  up  unworn,  and  the  hat 
had  been  thrust  out  of  the  desolate  fathers 
sight  with  a  groan.  Faith  alone  saved  his 
reason  in  that  hour  of  darkness. 

When  Pauline  repeated  the  cobbler^s  mes- 
sage to  her  mother,  the  latter  said: 

"  The  prayers  of  the  poor  are  very  precious. 
That  blessing  he  has  promised  me  will  be  as 
a  rich  inheritance." 


I  t 


y  Y 


-=™p»l 


wma 


CHAPTER  IX. 


PAULINE   GOES   VISITING. 

Pauline  often  wet  the  pigeon's  shimmer- 
ing plumage  with  her  tears,  as  she  sat  alone 
on  the  steps  and  told  him  over  and  over  the 
«tory  of  little  Mary's  death. 

"  She  is  fretting  for  her  little  playmate," 
Mrs.  Archer  said  to  her  husband,  "  and  on 
Buch  a  nature  as  hers  the  occurrence  may  have 
a  serious  effect." 

"  Do  you  find  her  looking  ill  ?  "  cried  Reg- 
inald with  sudden  alarm.  The  tragedy  of 
Mary's  death  had  brought  the  possibilities 
home  to  him,  and  he  felt  a  chill  at  his  heart 
at  thought  of  anything  happening  to  Pauline. 
Perhaps  she  had  caught  that  terrible  fever  ! 

"  Oh,  no,''  said  Mrs.  Archer,  laying  a  sooth- 
ing hand  on  his  arm.  "  She  is  grieving  some- 
what, that  is  all.  So  I  will  be  glad  when  the 
time  comes  for  her  to  have  a  change." 

"  I  promised  Lulu,  by  the  way,  to  bring 
her  over  there  to  luncheon  some  day  soon. 

88 


ft 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting. 


89 


"  That  will  be  very  nice  indeed  for  her,'* 
said  Mrs.  Archer. 

"  I  think  I  shall  take  her  over  there  this 
afternoon,"  said  Reginald,  who  liked  to  act 
on  impulse,  "and  then  we  can  arrange  what 
day  next  week  she  may  go  to  luncheon." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Archer.  "  Rebecca 
will  have  her  ready  about  four  o'clock,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Yes,  somewhere  about  that  time.  And 
n^w  1  must  be  off." 

On  their  way  to  his  sister's  Reginald  Archer, 
brisk, alert, and  good-natured  as  usual, pointed 
out  to  Pauline  the  various  public  buildings, 
club-houses,  private  dwellings,  or  churches, 
with  that  peculiar  pride  felt  by  a  genuine 
New-Yorker  in  the  brick-and-mortar  glories 
of  his  splendid  city. 

Pauline  looked  indifferently  at  the  great 
stone  mansions  which  had  been  familiar  to 
her  since  childhood,  but  she  was  far  more 
interested  in  the  churches.  Their  vast  propor- 
tions seemed  especially  to  appeal  to  her,  and 
every  once  in  a  while  she  asked  her  father: 

"  Papa,  is  that  a  Catholic  church  ?  "  It 
was  always  with  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
that  she  heard  that  this  or  that  noble  pile  wae 


90 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting. 


I: 


a  Presbyterian  or  a  Baptist  or  a  Congrega- 
tional church. 

"  It  must  have  been  nice  when  every 
church  was  Catholic,"  said  Pauline. 

"  That  was  never  the  case  in  New  York." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  in  all  the  world,  in  the  old 
times,"  cried  Pauline,  after  which  she  relapsed 
into  silence,  amusing  herself  by  naming  every 
church  which  they  passed. 

"  That  one  might  be  the  Sacred  Heart,  and 
that  Holy  Mary's  Church,  and  that  St. 
Joseph's,  and  this  tiny  one  St.  John's." 

Instead  she  read  upon  some  of  them  the 
names. 

"  Just  of  people,"  she  said,  and  her  little 
mind  was  filled  with  a  great  desire  to  re- 
christen  them  all  after  the  glorious  company 
of  martyrs  or  the  heroic  host  of  confessors  and 
apostles.  She  took  a  variety  of  notes  on  other 
subjects  as  she  went  along.  How  Ihe  horses' 
feet  tripped  over  the  rough  cobblestones  or 
macadamized  pavement  to  a  r'hythmic  meas- 
ure, and  the  people  paced  the  sidewalks  with 
the  air  of  taking  part  in  a  show.  She  noted 
the  florists'  windows,  wherein  the  late  flowers 
made  splendid  patches  of  color,  red,  yellow,  or 
purple,  with  gieen  and  white  softening  them 


%i 


^'T 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting. 


91 


to  the  eyes;  and  the  caterers'  shops  decorated 
with  bonbonnieres  in  fascinating  variety,  al- 
ternated with  dainty  piles  of  delicious  sweets 
or  cakes,  with  icings  multicolored  and  dream- 
like in  delicacy. 

The  visit  to  her  aunt's  was  a  great  success, 
though  the  head  of  the  house  was  absent.  But 
the  two  gushing  young  cousins  were  at  home, 
and  entertained  their  relatives  very  prettily 
at  afternoon  tea. 

"  She's  sweet,"  said  one  of  these  youthful 
enthusiasts  to  Reginald,  indicating  Pauline, 
who  sat  erect  on  one  of  the  Louis  XV.  chairs, 
behaving  with  her  usual  decorum  and  pro- 
priety. 

"  A  perfect  dear,"  said  the  other,  who  was 
something  of  an  artist  and  went  in  for  being 
a'sthetic.  "  Why,  Uncle  Reginald,  she's  a 
poem,  a  symphony  in  flesh  and  blood." 

Pauline  caught  the  word,  and  treasured  it 
for  future  use.  She  could  not  imagine  why 
this  Cousin  Mollie  made  her  sit  in  different 
chairs  and  put  her  head  against  various-col- 
ored curtains,  with  light  falling  on  her  from 
more  than  one  point. 

"She  has  the  most  exquisite  ejes,"  added 
Mollie,  "and  her  hair  is  a  dream." 


1 1'' 


ft| 


92 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting. 


If:: 


1 


;i!, 


M 


Reginald  was  not  at  all  displeased  by  these 
raptures,  and  left  the  house  in  high  good 
humor,  having  promised  to  bring  Pauline  to 
luncheon  on  a  certain  appointed  day. 

"  Do  come  early,"  cried  the  girls,  who,  in 
their  own  way,  were  good-natured  and  socia- 
ble. "  There  are  heaps  of  things  about  the 
house  we  want  to  show  Pauline." 

The  latter  had  observed  with  her  calm  blue 
eyes  the  various  details  of  the  elaborately 
furnished  house,  the  great  drawing-rooms,  the 
conservatory,  and  the  Parisian  costumes  of 
her  cousins,  but  always  with  the  reserve  and 
perfect  breeding  which  were  habitual  to  her. 

"  What's  a  symphony  ? "  she  asl;ed  her 
mother  that  evening.  Pauline  pronounced 
the  word  imperfectly,  so  that  at  first  her 
mother  could  not  catch  it,  nor  did  she  find  it 
easy  to  make  the  meaning  clear  to  her  little 
daughter. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Cousin  Mollie  said  I  was  that,"  said  Pau- 
line. "  Of  course  I  didn't  know  what  she 
meant." 

"  She  meant  it  kindly,  dear,"  said  hex 
mother,  "  but  I  don't  think  you  could  quite 
understand  its  meaning." 


I 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting.  tt 

Pauline  asked  no  more,  but  she  repeated 
the  word  often  to  herself,  and  it  was  uncom- 
fortably associated  in  her  mind  for  a  long 
time  after  with  Cousin  Mollie. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"It  sounds  queer, but  I'll  know  when  Fm  big." 

After  that  Pauline's  attention  was  alto- 
gether taken  up  with  preparations  for  the  de- 
parture to  the  South,  a  probable  date  having 
been  decided  on.  Her  wardrobe  had  to  be 
overlooked,  additions  made  to  it,  old  frocks 
ripped  up  and  turned,  hats  retrimmed  or  re- 
newed. In  fact  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be 
done. 

Mrs.  Archer  was  so  much  better  that  the 
doctor  thought  the  journey  would  be  quite 
safe,  and  that  it  should  be  made  before  the 
mild  weather  was  quite  over.  Reginald  Archer 
was  not  only  delighted  with  the  improvement 
in  his  wife's  health,  but  he  was  glad  of  a 
change.  So  that  the  bustle  in  the  household 
during  those  autumn  days  was  altogether  a 
pleasant  one.  Even  Rebecca  thawed  in  ad- 
vance, as  though  the  genial  sun  of  the  South 
had  already  touched  her.  She,  as  well  as  Mrs. 
Archer's  personal  attendant,  was  to  accom- 
pany them.     For  Reginald  Archer's  specula- 


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94 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting. 


iii; 


!■'! 


li: 


tions  had  been  very  fortunate  of  late,  and  he 
laughingly  assured  his  wife  that  she  need  not 
be  one  bit  anxious  about  the  expense.  Pau- 
line, in  the  nursery,  thinking  over  all  the  new- 
things  that  were  being  got  and  of  what  she 
had  heard  would  be  the  cost  of  the  journey, 
exclaimed  once  to  Rebecca: 

"We  aren't  poor  at  all." 

A  sudden  memory  struck  her  of  how  she  had 
once  said  the  very  same  thing  and  had  added : 

«  But  little  Mary  Kelly  is." 

She  did  not  utter  the  thought  aloud  this 
time.  She  had  never  mentioned  Mary's  name 
to  Eebecca  since  the  day  when  the  child  had 
been  sent  home.  But  like  a  shadow  the  tiny 
child  flitted  across  her  mind;  a  shadow  soon 
to  grow  dim  in  the  excitement  of  new  scenes, 
but  never  entirely  to  fade  away. 

As  she  stood  looking  out  of  the  window,  her 
eyes  striving  to  pierce  the  radiant  sunset,  she 
wondered  in  what  bright  place  Mary  was  now. 

"  She  isn't  poor  any  more,"  she  said  to  her- 
self with  awe.  "  Little  Mary's  rich  and  very 
beautiful."        • 

She  pictured  her  playfellow  as  she  had  seen 
saints  in  pictures,  with  a  shining  robe  and 
something  like  the  sun  behind  her  head.   And 


j'illi! 


illi 


iillUll 


i 


Pauline  Goes  Visiting. 


95 


"wratching  the  golden  mist  which  floated  aver 
the  sky,  she  wondered  if  that  were  what 
heaven  was  like. 

"If  she  had  to  come  back  to  the  cellar 
now  !  "  she  thought. 

But  here  her  meditations  were  interrupted 
by  Mademoiselle  Nouvelle,  who  had  come  to 
try  on  her  new  frock.  The  dressmaker  was 
full  of  smiles  and  compliments  as  she  adjusted 
every  plait  and  frill. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  look  like  a  symphony  aow," 
thought  Pauline  with  a  funny  little  laugh,  in- 
stantly suppressed.  In  fact  she  was  very 
grave,  and  submitted  to  be  turned  and  twisted 
in  all  directions.  Only  her  blue  eyes  looked 
curiously  at  the  volatile  Frenchwoman.  Pau- 
line often  had  a  variety  oi  thoughts  about 
people,  but  she  was  happily  far  too  polite  to 
express  them.  She  wondered  now  why 
Mademoiselle's  head  kept  bobbing  up  and 
down,  and  how  aU  the  hair  ^e  had  stayed  in 
its  place. 

"  Perhaps  ifs  the  same  kind  as  Rebecca's," 
she  reflected,  "  and  then  she  can  take  it  off  at 
night." 

She  rather  envied  Rebecca  that  privilege 
when  she  used  to  watch  her  put  her  hair  on 


S'li 


k 

III. 


If? 

'j  * 


f 


96 


Pauline  CFoea  Visiting. 


*l 


'II 


111 


ISil' 


a  chair  io  brush  it.  For  one  of  Pauline's 
minor  trials  had  been  the  vigorous  process  to 
which  her  own  tresses  were  subjected  at  the 
hands  of  Rebecca.  She  also  thought  Rebecca 
was  fortunate  in  having  teeth  which  came  out. 
"I  can't  take  out  any  of  mine/'  the  child 
often  said.    "  I  wish  I  could." 

The  Frenchwoman  was  of  course  quite  un- 
conscious of  Pauline's  thoughts,  and  continued 
to  address  her  in  voluble  and  somewhat  jerky 
sentences. 

"  Your  robe  fits  y^u  to  a  marvel,"  she  said. 

It  seemed  funny  to  Pauline  that  her  frock 
should  be  called  a  robe,  but  she  gave  no  sign. 

"  And  your  figure,  it  is  a  perfection." 

Pauline  gave  the  woman  an  inscrutable 
look  as  she  continued: 

"You  are  straight  as  the  darts.  Oh,  how 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  make  the  robes  for  you  I " 

The  frock  was  a  very  pretty  one,  and  the 
dressmaker  more  skilful  with  the  needle  than 
an  the  use  of  the  English  language. 

**  I  am  not  large  in  the  English  speech,"  she 
observed.    "I  cannot  much  speak." 

Pauline  thought  she  managed  to  speak  a 
good  deal,  but  her  attention  was  diverted  by 
the  rows  of  pretty  buttons  and  the  artistic 


Pauline  Ooea  Visiting. 


97 


bows  of  ribbon.  She  was  delighted  with  her 
new  dress. 

"  The  color  goes  so  well  for  you,"  said 
Mademoiselle.  "  It  brings  out  the  tint  of  your 
cheek,  which  resembles  to  the  rose." 

Pauline  v/as  quite  unused  to  flattery,  with 
the  exception  of  the  few  gushing  remarks,  but 
half  understood,  of  her  cousins.  Rebecca  had 
sternly  set  her  face  against  anything  of  the 
kind  from  the  first,  and  Mrs.  Archer  had  pur- 
posely avoided  it.  So  that  it  did  not  appeal 
to  Pauline;  nor  did  she  because  of  it  feel 
any  attraction  towards  those  who  used  it. 

To  do  the  Frenchwoman  justice,  she  had 
not  set  herself  deliberately  to  flatter  her  little 
customer.  She  sincerely  admired  the  child. 
The  graceful,  slender  figure  and  upright  car- 
riage appealed  to  her  professional  instincts, 
while  the  blue  eyes  and  shining  hair  pleased 
the  artistic  feeling  common  to  people  of  her 
race.  She  took  as  much  trouble  as  possible  in 
fitting  and  finishing  the  dainty  costume, 
which  was  to  be  one  of  Pauline's  best.  Mrs. 
Archer  had  always  insisted  upon  the  most  per- 
fect simplicity  in  her  little  daughter's  dress, 
and  in  this  her  views  agreed  with  the  French- 
woman's ideas  of  what  was  proper  for  a  child. 


■m 


Ii    ;b 


w 


!         ' 


1: 


l^<: 


lliii' 

•■I'M 

11 


:':i 


1 


i  !!i 


CHAPTER  X. 


PAULINE  S   COUSINS. 


It  was  in  this  very  costume  that  Pauline 
stood  prepared  to  accompany  her  father  to 
luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's.  She  went  out  upon 
the  sidewalk  and  began  to  pace  slowly  up  and 
down  in  the  sunshine,  while  her  father  was 
dressing  with  unusual  care.  He  was  going  to 
a  very  fashionable  reception  later  in  the  day. 
As  Pauline  walked,  observing  the  sunbeams, 
and  wondering  how  they  managed  to  make 
their  way  in  and  out  of  the  gi*ayness  of  the 
pavement,  and  tc  fleck  the  dust  of  the  road 
without  really  touching  it,  she  suddenly  heard 
the  familiar  voices  of  her  former  persecutors, 
the  street-boys.  Whether  it  was  that  their 
.own  particular  neighborhood  had  furnished 
them  with  some  new  attraction,  or  for  what- 
ever reason,  they  had  not  lately  troubled  the 
little  girl.    Perceiving  her  now,  they  cried  out 

in  glee: 

08 


liiiii 


Pauline's  Cousins. 


99 


f' 


V 


"  Oh,  there's  Miss  Proudie  !  She's  still 
alive,  and  more  stuck  up  than  ever." 

"  I  say,"  cried  one,  "  are  you  any  relation 
to  Queen  Victory  ?  " 

''Her  daughter,  mebbe,"  cried  another; 
''the  Princess  Victory." 

"  Gosh  !  ain't  she  fine  in  her  new  rig  ! " 

Pauline  cast  one  of  her  inscrutable  looks 
towards  them  as  she  walked  up  the  steps  very 
slowly,  lest  they  might  think  she  was  running 
away,  and  stood  still  there,  facing  them. 

'^  Miss  Proudie's  got  it  bad  this  morning," 
cried  one  of  the  gang.  "  Her  nose  is  goin'  up 
so  high  it  won't  come  down  no  more.  Take 
care  you  don't  lose  it,  sissy." 

iiiese  exclamations  were  accompanied  by 
yells  which  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  an 
Indian  war-whoop.  This  musical  entertain- 
/nent  was  cut  short  by  the  sudden  opening  of 
the  door,  and  the  appearance  of  Reginald 
Archer. 

"  Cricky  !  there's  her  dad  ! "  cried  the 
chorus.  "  My  eyes  !  what  a  swell  !  Look  out 
^or  squalls  when  she  tells  him." 

So  saying,  every  head  disappeared  in  a  jiffy 
into  a  neighboring  area.  But  Paulino  dis- 
dained to  malie  any  complaint  of  them. 


I 


W '' 


"I  " 


M    !i 


.;  illiiji 


100 


Paulme'a  Cousins. 


it 


They're  only  street-boys,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "  and  don't  know  any  better." 

But  when  she  was  driving  away  in  the 
hansom  which  her  father  had  called,  with  the 
crisp  air  blowing  in  her  face  and  touching  it 
into  color,  she  continued  the  subject  in  her 
own  mind. 

"  1  wonder  if  they  always  live  in  the 
street,"  she  thought,  "  or  if  they  ever  go  into 
houses." 

The  term  street -boys,  which  she  had  first 
heard  from  Eebecca,  conveyed  a  rather  vague 
impression  to  her  mind.  Her  father  was  of 
course  quite  unconscious  of  her  thoughts,  and 
he  was  himself  rather  silent,  being  occupied 
with  some  matter  of  business. 

Pauline's  aunt  unconsciously  echoed  the 
very  sentiment  of  the  street-boys,  though  it 
would  have  filled  her  aristocratic  soul  with 
horror  to  have  been  told  that  she  could  have 
anything  in  common  with  such  creatures. 

"  Why,  Keginald,  she's  a  perfect  little 
princess,"  she  said;  and  her  brother  was  the 
more  pleased  by  this  half -involuntary  tribute 
of  admiration  because  he  knew  that  his  sister 
was  not  given  to  lavishing  praises  on  any  but 
her  own  girls. 


! 


m 


Pauline'a  Cousins. 


101 


Aunt  Lulu,  having  thus  pronounced  upon 
her  niece,  began  to  converse  upon  some  topic 
of  common  interest  to  her  brother  and  herself, 
and  Pauline  was  whirled  away  by  her  cousins 
to  amuse  and  be  amused  until  luncheon.  They 
found  the  little  girl's  quaint  notions,  as  far 
as  her  shyness  permitted  her  to  express  them, 
simply  fascinating.  They  took  her  to  what 
had  been  the  nurseries,  but  which  to  these 
early-emancipated  young  ladies  of  fifteen  and 
sixteen  were  but  a  distant  memory. 

"  Ever  so  long  ago  we  used  to  have  our 
meals  in  here,"  they  said,  throwing  open  the 
door  of  a  small  square  apartment  which  had 
once  been  used  as  a  dining-room.  The  day- 
nursery  was  full  of  juvenile  treasures,  such  as 
simple  Pauline  had  never  imagined.  She 
had  had  her  own  share  of  toys,  and  even  at 
times  costly  ones,  but  this  collection  was 
bewildering.  Dolls  with  complete  trousseaux, 
including  everything  in  mimic  counterfeit 
that  even  the  most  modern  young  lady  could 
possess,  with  trunks  of  the  newest  patterns, 
bedsteads,  folding  and  otherwise,  wardrobes 
and  bureaus  and  secretaries  with  endless 
shelves  and  drawers.  There  was  furniture  of 
every  kind:  sofas,  armchairs,  dining-tables  set 


1! 


^li 


102 


Pauline's  Cousins. 


m 


if ' 


*• 


111  lit! 


m  w 


iliiWi 


out  with  every  appliance,  rocking-chairs  and 
footstools.  There  were  tea-sets  and  bedroom- 
sets,  and  dinner-sets  in  china  and  pewter,  with 
baby-houses  and  kitchens  which  had  more 
dishes  and  cooking-utensils  than  even  the 
modern  grown-up  kitchens.  There  were  books 
of  exquisite  design  and  coloring  which  made 
Pauline  open  her  eyes  wide  in  delight.  And 
then  the  mechanical  toys:  walking  dolls  and 
talking  dolls  and  sleeping  dolls;  lambs  that 
bleated,  donkeys  that  brayed,  carriages  that 
drove  swiftly  over  the  nursery  floor,  figures 
that  moved  their  hands,  employed  in  a  variety 
of  trades;  trains  that  started  on  mimic  jour- 
neys, express-carts  that  rattled  almost  as  much 
as  the  big  ones.  There  were  otiier  irre;it  carts 
laden  with  bags  and  boxes  and  barrels,  and 
Pauline  took  delight  in  unloading  these  at  the 
doors  of  grocery-shops  with  the  dearest  little 
cannisters  and  a  real  till,  through  which 
money  which  looked  real  could  be  slipped. 

Pauline  was  still  young  enough  to  love  toys, 
fio  she  fairly  revelled  in  this  toy-kingdom, 
where  the  Santa  Claus  she  had  once  believed 
in  could  easily  have  filled  his  pack. 

"  How  did  you  ever  get  so  many  ? "  she 
asked  of  her  cousins. 


.1- 


Pauline's  Cousins. 


103 


"  Oh,  and  we  broke  lots  more,"  said  they 
carelessly,  "  and  gave  away  heaps." 

"  Little  Mary  Kelly  would  have  been  just 
sure  this  was  fairyland,"  Pauline  said  involun- 
tarily; for  since  her  playmate's  death  she  had 
not  mentioned  her  name,  except  to  her 
mother. 

"  Mary  Kelly  ?  "  echoed  the  cousins. 

"  She  was  a  little  girl  I  used  to  know,"  said 
Pauline.    "  She's  dead  now." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  listeners. 

"  She  was  very  poor,  I  think,"  said  Pauline, 
"  and  once  when  we  took  her  to  the  Park  she 
thought  it  was  fairyland." 

Cousin  Mollie  suddenly  began  to  remember 
the  story  of  Pauline's  odd  fancy  for  some  low 
child,  and  she  asked: 

"  How  did  a  child  of  that  sort  know  any- 
thins^  about  fairies  ?  " 

She  spoke  as  if  the  fairy  world  in  some 
sort  belonged  to  the  children  of  the  rich  and 
was  not  to  be  approached  by  less  favored  ones, 

"  She  knew  very  well,"  said  Pauline.  "  Her 
father  told  her." 

"  But  wasn't  she  a  cobbler's  child  ?  "  asked 
the  younger  cousin,  who  also  remembered 
suddenly.    "  How  could  a  poor  man  who  was 


ii;.' 


i!     : 


T 


i:    ii 


1 


Ii!  i' 


ii 


si 


■;t 


111 


i'  '■ 


!' 


104 


Pauline's  Cousins. 


always  busy  mending  shoes  have  time  to  talk 
about  fairies  ?  " 

"  I  don't  knoAV,"  said  Pauline  in  her  slow, 
deliberate  speech.  "  Perhaps  he  wasn't  al- 
ways mending  shoes,  so  sometimes  he  could 
talk  about  fairies." 

"  But  where  did  he  ever  hear  of  them  ? " 
cried  both  the  cousins,  seeming  to  be  quite 
aggrieved  at  his  knowledge. 

Pauline  could  not  explain  this  difliculty. 

"  It  must  have  just  come  into  his  head,"  she 
said;  "  people  think  of  such  lots  of  things — 
unless  some  one  told  him.  But  if  little  Mary 
could  have  seen  all  these  !  She  just  had  one 
tiny  doll,  with  the  paint  off  one  side  of  its 
face,  and  no  clothes  for  it.  She  brought  it  up 
to  our  house  sometimes,  and  once  1  made  a 
dress  and  a  petticoat  for  it,  and  little  Mary 
ran  home  to  tell  her  father  about  it,  she  was 
so  glad.  She  wouldn't  even  wait  till  I  made 
a  waist." 

The  cousins  were  silent.  Perhaps  a  sudden 
thought  occurred  to  them,  in  the  mass  of  su- 
perfluities by  which  they  were  surrounded,  of 
lives,  like  this  one  just  gone  out,  which  have 
had  so  little  in  them. 

"  She  was  a  very  nice  little  girl,"  said  Pau- 


Pauline^a  CotLsina. 


105 


line,  "and  ju&t  big  enough  to  get  up  the 
cellar  stairs  alone  and  come  up  about  two 
blocks  to  our  house." 

The  mention  of  the  cellar  jarred  upon 
the  listeners.  It  seemed  dreadful  to  have 
any  one  coming  from  such  a  place  into  one's 
house. 

"  I  thought  it  awful  <o  have  to  live  in  a 
cellar  at  first/'  said  Pauliii  ,  "and  that's  why 
I  wanted  her  to  come  up  pretty  often;  and  so 
did  mammj  when  sLj  found  ?bo  was  a  nice 
little  girl.  But,"  she  addc  1,  warming  to  her 
theme  and  sitting  bacK  on  the  floor,  sur- 
rounded by  a  confusion  of  packages  which 
she  had  just  unloaded  from  the  exprc^o-cart, 
"it  doesn't  make  any  diffeixmce  now.  Isn't 
it  strange  to  think  that  little  Mary  has  more 
than  all  this  ?  " 

She  waved  her  hands  to  indicate  the  nurs- 
ery with  all  its  treasures. 

"  And  more  than  all  the  city  full  of  things," 
she  added  impressively.    • 

Her  two  cousins  sat  still  in  the  armchairs 
into  which  they  had  thrown  themselves,  re* 
garding  the  little  girl  before  them  with 
curiosity.  It  must  be  owned,  too,  that  they 
were  somewhat  impressed  by  the  idea  thus 


Hi 


I! 


h 


Ml 


I 


t.  ' 


X 


^1{|! 


M  M 


MM 


106 


Pauline's  Cousins. 


presented  to  them  in  the  imperfect  speech  of 
childhood. 

"  After  she  was  dead,"  Pauline  continued 
in  a  hushed  voice,  "  her  father  looked  as  if  he 
was  nearly  always  crying.  He  wasn't  crying 
when  I  saw  him,  but  he  said  that  he  wished 
his  heart  would  stop  aching  and  break  at 


>f 


once 

Perhaps  it  was  a  re /elation  to  the  spoiled 
darlings  of  fortune  who  listened  that  a  cob- 
bler had  a  heart,  much  more  one  that  was 
liable  to  break.  If  they  had  thought  of  the 
matter  at  all,  they  would  have  concluded 
that  people  of  that  sort,  to  use  their  own 
vague  expression,  couldn^t  feel  anything  very 
keenly. 

"  It  was  awful  to  see  him,"  said  Pauline; 
"and  I  think  I  would  have  been  afraid  of 
him  when  he  spoke  in  a  queer  voice,  only  that 
I  knew  he  was  just  feeling  sorry  for  little 
Mary  and  couldn't  help  speaking  like  that. 
Sometimes  I  speak  queerly  when  I'm  sorry 
about  anything.  Perhaps  he  feels  better  now, 
though." 

Pauline  concluded  her  speech  with  this 
comforting  thought,  and  went  briskly  back  to 
the  loading  of  the  express-cart,  making  the 


:;,! 


Pauline'' s  Cousins. 


107 


donkey's  head  wag,  too,  while  she  stuffed 
various  small  bundles  into  the  panniere  at 
each  side  of  him. 

"  I  think  I'll  play  I'm  a  robber,  soon,"  she 
said,  adding  politely,  "that  is,  if  you  don't 
mind.  I'll  be  coming  on  that  horse  over  there 
to  stop  a  train  of  provisions." 

But  her  cousins  being  quite  willing,  those 
somewhat  bored  yomig  ladies  being  very  much 
amused  by  her  vagaries,  she  had  assumed  a 
dozen  different  disguises  before  luncheon. 

"  You're  so  original,  dear,"  said  Cousin 
Mollie. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Pauline,  stopping 
in  the  act  of  doing  sentry  duty  before  a  fort 
she  had  erected  out  of  blocks. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  it's  charming." 

Pauline  resumed  her  sentry-work.  She  had 
been  afraid  for  the  moment  that  she  might 
have  been  making  herself  disagreeable  to  her 
cousins. 

Luncheon  being  presently  announced,  she 
accompanied  her  cousins  down-stairs. 


^*^ 


t     '] 


19 

r 

If  i 


^Ji 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  LUNCHEON  AT  AUNT  LULU'S. 

As  Pauline  seated  herself  at  the  luncheon- 
table,  Eeginald  Archer  oould  not  help  casting 
a  swift  glance  of  pride  at  her.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  a  little  and  her  eyes  bright  from 
her  recent  experiences  in  the  kingdom  of  toys 
up-stairs. 

"  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  hour  with  your 
cousins  up-stairs  ?  '*  asked  Pauline's  aunt  in 
her  conventional  voice. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  Aunt  Lulu,"  responded 
Pauline  in  a  subdued  tone.  Her  shjrness, 
whic'h  had  worn  off  a  good  deal  with  her 
cousins,  returned  in  the  presence  of  her  some- 
what formal  aunt.  Pauline  did  not  permit 
herself  any  reflections  disparaging  to  this  lady, 
whose  face,  with  its  artificial  smiles  and 
forced  kindliness,  was  still  almost  an  exact 
copy  of  her  father's. 

"  Did  you  take  her  to  the  nursery,  girls  ?  '* 

asked  Aunt  Lulu. 

108 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's. 


109 


i( 


Oh,  yes,  mamma,  and  she  was  so  sweet, 
playing  with  the  toys." 

Pauline,  demurely  eating  her  luncheon  off 
the  most  exquisite  of  hand-painted  china, 
peeped  from  behind  the  Venetian  bowl  of  late 
roses  which  hid  her  view,  to  see  what  her 
aunt  might  think  of  this  complimentary  refer- 
ence to  herself.  But  that  lady  had  quite  for- 
gotten the  matter,  and  as  she  took  her  iced 
bouillon  from  the  silver  cup  she  confided  to 
her  brother  a  new  scheme  which  she  had  in 
view  for  the  girls. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  charming,  and  several  of 
our  friends  have  taken  it  up  for  their 
daughters.  If  Pauline  were  a  few  years  older, 
she  might  have  joined  the  band.  They  will 
sail  in  January,  and  travel  abroad  for  a  year 


or  so 


}j 


But  haven't  they  been  over  half  a  dozen 
times  ? "  asked  practical  Reginald,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  to  wait  for  the  substantials. 

"  Only  three  times,"  corrected  his  sister. 

"  But  hasn't  Mollie  seen  almost  everything 
over  there  ?  " 

"  This  is  such  a  cb  once,  though,"  said  his 
sister.  "  A  delightful  lot  of  girls  going,  and 
with  such  an  experienced  person.    They  are 


i 


i';i:tf<iK4t4ti 


f 

If" 


fi""t, 


110 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's. 


to  have  regular  hours  for  study,  and  in 
doing  the  art-galleries  and  places  of  note 
are  to  learn  everything  about  them."     ' 

"How  will  you  girls  take  to  all  that 
study  ?  "  asked  Uncle  Keginald.  "  What  do 
you  say,  Mollie  ?" 

Mollie  made  an  expressive  little  gesture  to 
signify  that  she  was  not  likely  to  study  too 
much,  but  she  said  aloud: 

"  Of  course  we'll  study.  We  have  to  be  up 
in  all  sorts  of  things;  but  that  won't  prevent 
us  from  having  an  uproarious  time.  We're 
sure  to  enjoy  ourselves." 

"Why,  certainly,  my  love,"  said  her  mother, 
"  enjoyment  is  the  great  business  of  life  at 
your  age.  Pauline,  you  shall  have  your  turn 
at  it,  later." 

Reginald  Archer  was  much  too  good- 
natured  and  indisposed  to  trouble  himself 
about  other  people's  concerns  to  argue  the 
matter  any  further.  But  he  mentally  thought 
that  he  would  never  allow  Pauline  to  go  away 
with  strange  people  and  have  "  an  uproarious 
time."  The  words  seemed  absurd  in  connec- 
tion with  that  child,  whose  blue  eyes,  heavily 
fringed,  looked  on  the  world  with  an  expres- 
sion which  her  nurse  called  "creepy." 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's. 


Ill 


Luncheon  over,  Reginald  declared  that  he 
had  to  take  Pauline  home  before  he  went  to 
a  reception  at  the  Union  League  Club.  So 
Pauline  was  kissed  and  gushed  over,  with 
many  injunctions  from  aunt  and  cousins  alike 
to  be  sure  and  come  again  soon.  Reginald 
told  them  that  they  hoped  to  get  away  very 
soon,  but  that  later  Pauline  would  see  more  of 
them. 

Pauline  took  leave  without  much  regret  of 
the  great  drawing-rooms  opening  one  into  an- 
other, with  vistas  of  exquisite  ornaments, 
screens,  and  oriental  palms  growing,  as  it 
were,  in  this  luxuriance  of  wealth.  The 
dining-room,  with  its  conservatory  full  of 
plants  and  flowers,  was  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hall  and  was  equally  rich  and  beautiful. 

Pauline  had  much  to  reflect  upon,  and  there 
were  various  questions  she  wanted  to  ask  her 
mother  when  she  was  admitted  to  the  in- 
valid's room  about  twilight.  She  told  her,  in 
the  first  place,  about  those  wonderful  toys 
and  how  she  was  rather  afraid  to  touch  them 
at  first  until  her  cousins  had  told  her  that  she 
could  do  as  she  pleased  with  them,  for  that 
they  didn't  care  for  toys  at  all. 

"  But  it  would  have  been  just  awful  to 


ij 


11- 


^i 


ill 


w 


[>  I 


I; 


■■\ ' 


112 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's. 


IP 


ill! 


break  any,  I  would  have  been  so  ashamed," 
bringing  her  brows  together  expressively. 
"  So  1  touched  them  all  very  gently  and 
played  carefully  with  them." 

"  That  was  the  wisest  thing  to  do,"  said  the 
mother,  knowing  well  that  it  is  not  always 
safe  to  take  people  at  their  word.  "  One 
should  be  always  careful  in  handling  other 
people's  things." 

"  Were  they  ever  children  ? "  asked  Pau- 
line. 

"  Who,  your  cousins  ?  Why,  of  course; 
they  are  little  more  than  children  now." 

"  Some  people  seem  as  if  they  had  always 
been  grown  up,"  said  Pauline,  "  and  I  think 
Cousin  Mollie  would  look  funny  in  a  pina- 
fore." 

She  began  to  laugh,  thinking  of  her  cousin's 
fashion-plate  appearance  with  over-decorated 
hair. 

"  I'm  almost  sure  she  never  skipped  or  ran, 
or  played  robbers  or  anything  like  that.  She 
says  she  used  to  adore  dolls  ever  so  long  ago.** 

Pauline's  unconscious  imitation  of  her 
cousin's  speech  made  Mrs.  Archer  smile  as  she 
said: 

"Mollie's  just  sixteen  now." 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu^s. 


113 


<c 


<( 


"  Is  she  ?  "  said  Pauline.  "  Aunt  Lulu's 
quite  young,  too,  isn't  she  ?  " 

This  unexpected  question  nearly  upset  the 
invalid's  gravity. 

"  Comparatively  young,  yes,"  she  said. 

"  Her  cheeks  are  very  fresh,"  said  Pauline, 
"  and  she  would  look  a  good  deal  like  papa  if 
she  had  whiskers  on." 

"  They  are  alike  and  yet  different,"  said 
Mrs.  Archer,  waiting  for  Pauline's  next  ques- 
tion, which  came  presently. 

What's  uproarious  ?  "  she  asked. 
It  Ui?ually  means  loud,  noisy,"  said  Mrs. 
Archer.     "  But  how  was  it  used  ?  " 

'*  Cousin  Mollie  said  she  would  have  an 
uproarious  time  when  she  went  to  Europe. 
I  didn't  know  what  she  meant,  because  I 
don't  think  I  ever  heard  that  word  before." 

It  struck  Pauline's  fancy,  though,  and  she 
used  it  after  that  frequently  in  her  plays. 

*'  It  sounds  funny,  very  funny,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

When  she  went  down  after  a  wliile  to  feed 
the  pigfeon,  she  said  to  it: 

"If  you  could  fly  far  as  birds  do,  and  go 
far,  far  away,  over  the  roofs,  you'd  have  an 
■aproarious  time.'* 


I 


h  Hi 


I       ..! 


114 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's. 


The  pigeon  might  have  said  that  he  could 
have  flown  much  farther  if  his  wings  had  not 
been  clipped,  but  he  said  nothing,  only  picked 
up  the  crumbs,  standing  beside  his  little 
patron  in  the  setting  sun. 

"  I  wish  1  could  fly,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I'd  just  love  to  start  from  our  chimney  and 
go  up  high  into  the  air.  But  I  can't,  and  so 
I  think  I'll  ask  Rebecca  to  come  up  on  the 
roof  with  me  to  fly  a  kite.  It  will  be  lovely 
to  see  it  going  away  in  the  breeze." 

She  bade  the  pigeon  good-by,  as  she  had 
to  go  in  to  tea,  which  she  generally  took  alone, 
xur,  except  on  state  occasions,  she  never  went 
to  dinner  with  her  father.  Indeed,  since  his 
wife  had  been  obliged  to  keep  her  room  Mr. 
Archer  often  dined  at  the  club. 

"  There  will  be  onlv  a  few  more  teas  and 
dinners  before  we  start,"  Pauline  said  to  Re- 
becca as  the  latter  served  the  simple  meal. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Rebecca,  who  was  rather 
vexed  that  the  journey  had  been  delayed 
longer  than  she  expected. 

"  Are  you  going  to  wear  your  lily-of-the- 
valley  dress  the  day  we  go  ?  "  asked  Pauline, 
referrinsr  to  a  red  calico  with  sprays  of  white 
which  Rebecca  had  lately  purchased. 


ill 


A  Luncheon  at  Aunt  Lulu's. 


115 


'.I- 


"  Oh,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  make  myself 
fine,  or  you'll  be  for  leaving  me  behind,"  said 
the  nurse  with  grim  humor. 

"  No,"  said  Pauline,  ''  I'd  rather  you'd  go, 
and  I  don't  care  how  you  dress." 

"  Anythiug'U  do  for  me,"  said  Rebecca 
caustically. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Pauline.  "  I  like 
you  in  your  lily-of-the- valley  dress  very  much." 

"  Oh,  well,  anythmg's  becoming  to  a 
beauty/'  said  the  nurse,  '^  so  I  needn't  be 


anxious. 


)} 


There's  a  tiny  Japanese  lady  on  this 
plate,"  said  Pauline,  changing  the  subject, 
*'  and  she  looks  as  if  she  was  standing  on  a 
frog's  head.  No,  it's  a  buttertly  with 
speckled  wings.  He  looks  very  big,  but  when 
1  put  down  my  piece  of  cake  it  covers  him 
and  the  lady  and  that  man  with  the  big  hat 
and  the  umbrella.  I  lock  as  big,  as  big  beside 
that  lady  as  the  elephant  looked  near  little 
Mary  and  me." 

A  shadow  fell  over  her  face  as  she  said 
these  last  words,  and  she  finished  her  meal  in 
silence,  to  Rebecca's  satisfaction,  as  that 
worthy  woman  was  burrying  to  have  a  long 
evening  out. 


IP 


«lil 


f'»  i,..il 


h 


'          1 

r . 

f 

a; 

1 

i, 

i 

■'lli 

t 

:ili 

1 

-■li 

I                   ■  I 
i                         ! 

CHAPTER  XII. 


A  JOUKNEY. 


When  the  day  of  departure  came  at  last, 
one  of  Pauline's  chief  regrets  was  to  have 
to  leave  the  pigeon.  She  felt  sure  he  would 
not  be  there  when  she  got  back.  The  old 
cook,  who  was  staying  in  the  house  with  her 
niece,  the  housemaid,  and  with  whom  Pau- 
line was  a  great  favorite,  promised  to  look 
after  it.  Having  thus  disposed  of  her  worldly 
affairs,  Pauline  was  the  first  to  go  out  when 
the  carriage  came  to  the  door  to  take  them 
away.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  of  her 
old  enemies,  the  street-boys,  but  they  were 
strangely  silent,  staring  at  the  carriage  with 
the  valises  upon  it.  It  didn't  matter  now, 
Pauline  thought,  what  they  said  or  did. 

Pauline,  though  she  had  been  looking  for- 
ward to  the  journey  with  a  child's  love  of 
change,  felt  a  sharp,  homesick  pang  when  the 

116 


A  Journey. 


117 


carriage  door  banged  upon  her  father,  her 
mother,  and  herself,  and,  the  coachman 
mounting  to  his  seat,  they  were  driven  away. 
She  felt  as  if  the  house  were  some  dearly  loved 
friend  from  whom  she  was  parting,  and 
the  cook,  who  stood  waving  to  her  from  the 
area,  some  one  whose  real  value  she  had  never 
known  bei'ore.  The  windows  of  her  mother's 
room,  with  tightly  closed  shutters,  and  those 
of  \dT  own  nursery  looked  so  lonely  as  the 
carriage  turned  the  corner,  shutting  the 
familiar  block  from  sight. 

"It  seems  strange  that  we  won't  be  going 
back  there  to-night/'  she  said  to  herself.  "  It 
will  be  all  dark  except  the  basement,  and  the 
nursery  will  be  ghostly." 

Her  father,  who  was  very  much  elated  at 
the  prospect  of  the  journey,  chatted  away 
with  her  mother,  who  seemed  wonderfully 
well,  until  they  reached  the  wharf  where  the 
great  steamer  la.y  waiting  to  take  them  on 
board.  They  went  at  once  to  their  state- 
rooms, the  best  on  board,  for  which  Mr. 
Archer  had  paid  extra  on  his  wife's  account, 
and  it  cheered  Pauline  to  see  Rebecca's  famil- 
iar figure  bustling  about  among  the  luggage. 
She  and  Mre.  Archer's  attendant  had  gone 


a 


^f 


118 


A  Journey. 


down  beforehand,  at  the  same  time  as  the 
larger  luggage,  to  see  that  all  was  properly 
placed. 

Pauline  presently  went  up  with  her  father 
to  the  deck,  where,  amidst  a  pleasant,  jostling 
crowd  all  saying  good-by  or  giving  farewell 
messages,  Reginald  discovered  Aunt  Lulu  and 
the  girls,  who  brought  sweets  for  Pauline  and 
flowers  for  Mrs.  Archer.  They  had  not  much 
time  to  stay,  and  had  barely  gone  when  there 
was  a  creaking  and  a  straining,  and  a  blowing 
of  signals,  and  finally  a  great  swish  of  water, 
which  told  that  they  were  off.  Pauline's 
heart  gave  a  great  bound.  It  seemed  strange 
to  her  to  be  sailing  away  from  the  one  shore 
she  had  so  far  known,  as  she  watched  the 
gradual  disappearance  of  church-spires  and 
tall  buildings  and  innumerable  roofs,  upon 
which  fell  the  slanting  afternoon  sun,  till  at 
last  all  had  vanished,  as  places  vanish  in  a 
dream. 

After  that  Pauline  felt  cross  and  miserable. 
She  had  one  of  wnat  Rebecca  called  her  bad 
turns. 

"  Though  she  ain't  often  cross,"  she  re- 
maiked  to  Mrs.  Archer's  attendant  afterwards, 
"but  she  has  a  temper,  and  I  suppose  it's 


A  Journey. 


119 


18 


better,  or  one  might  be  thinkin'  she  was  too 
good  for  this  world." 

Paulino  was  distinctly  cross  and  trouble- 
some. Her  overstrained  nerves  reacted  on  her 
tired  body,  and  she  fought  Rebecca  outright 
and  had  to  be  put  into  the  berth  almost  by 
force.     She  lay  there  sobbing  out: 

"  Oh,  you  wretched,  wretched  Rebecca,  I 
wish  you  were  in — Africa  !  " 

Rebecca  reduced  her  to  silence  at  length, 
saying  by  a  happy  inspiration  thai  she  was 
"  keepin^  her  sick  ma  awake."  This  acted  like 
a  charm,  and  Pauline  with  wonderful  self- 
control  hushed  her  sobs,  crying  softly  to  her- 
self, saying,  however,  as  a  last  dart  at  Re- 
becca : 

"  I  wis'h  it  was  the  last  day,  I'm  so  tired." 

"  Sakes  alive  ! "  muttered  Rebecca,  half 
scared  by  the  wis'h,  which  out  upon  the  face 
of  the  waters  struck  her  as  a  tempting  of 
Providence. 

The  weary  little  wanderer  was  very  soon 
asleep.  The  rush  of  the  water,  and  the  other 
noises  of  the  vessel  as  it  ploughed  through 
the  waters  like  some  mighty  monster,  which 
had  at  first  frightened  her,  helped  to  lull  her 
into  slumber.  . 


120 


A  Journey. 


I   'I 

m 
m 

ifr' 

I  It  I 


U-. 


i-t 


Next  morning  she  was  herself  again,  but  she 
felt  uneomfortab^  and  remorseful  ail  day, 
though  Rebecca  had  forgotten,  or  seemed  to 
have  forgotten,  all  about  the  previous  night. 
To  Mrs.  Archer  Pauline  said: 

"  Children  are  a  great  deal  worse  than  big 
people.  I  fought  with  Rebecca  last  night.  I'm 
almost  sure  I  pinched  her,  and  I  would  have 
liked  to  kick  her." 

"  A  great  girl  like  you  !  "  said  Mrs.  Archer. 
*'  Oh,  why  did  you  behave  in  that  way  to  poor 
Rebecca,  when  she  was  so  tired  and  had  so 
much  to  do  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know,"  said  Pauline  gloomily.  "  I 
called  her  *  wretched  Rebecca,'  and  said  I 
wished  she  was  in  Africa." 

"  Tt  was  well  for  you  that  your  foolish 
wish  wasn't  granted,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  trying 
to  look  serious.  "  You  must  tell  your  nurse 
that  you're  sorry,  and  try  to  be  yourself  the 
rest  of  the  journey.  You  must  have  been 
overtired  yourself,  I  think." 

"  Perhaps  I  was,"  said  Pauline;  and  after  a 
while  she  went  to  find  Rebecca,  who  seemed 
very  cross  and  was  grumbling  about  the  ac- 
commodations on  shipboard. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  cross  last  night,"  she 


t  II 


il 


A  Journey, 


12i 


said, "  and  I  don't  wish  you  were  in  Africa  at 
all,  Kebecca." 

"  I  couldn't  be  much  worse  than  where  I 
am,"  said  the  nurse  grimly. 

Pauline  began  to  laugh. 

"I  was  just  tliinkirg  how  funny  you'd 
look  in  Africa,  among  the  black,  woolly 
people." 

Rebecca  looked  at  her  sourly,  but  said 
nothing.  She  did  not  choose  to  imagine  her- 
self in  any  such  situation. 

"  You  might  get  speared,"  said  Pauline, 
"  just  like  that,"  seizing  an  umbrella  to  illus- 
trate her  meaning. 

"  Quit  your  foolishness,"  said  the  nurse, 
and  Pauline  ran  gayly  away.  She  was  the 
only  child  on  board,  and  was  made  a  great  pet 
of  by  the  passengers  and  allowed  many  privi- 
leges by  the  captain.  It  was  good  to  see  her 
running  with  swift  steps  from  deck  to  deck, 
with  shining  hair  flying  and  cheeks  glowing. 

There  was  a  Japanese  on  board,  who  took 
a  great  fancy  to  the  little  girl,  and  showed  her 
many  curios  which  he  carried  in  a  kind  of 
hand-satchel.  He  had  not  packed  them  in  a 
trunk,  he  told  her,  for  fear  they  might  get 
broken.      He  asked  Pauline  if  she  did  not 


l! 


•^m 


122 


A  Journey. 


think  a  tiny  idol  which  he  had  was  beautiful. 
It  was  the  great  Buddha  himself.  Pauline  was 
silent,  and  the  truth-loving  child  told  her 
mother  afterwards: 

"  He  was  just  hideous.  I  couldn't  say  he 
was  pretty.  His  eyes  were  tight-closed,  and 
he  had  earrings  in  his  ears,  and  he  was  squat- 
ting down  just  like  this." 

Pauline's  effort  to  show  the  attitude  of  the 
great  Buddha  caused  a  shout  of  laughter  from 
her  father,  who  had  drawn  near  unperceived 
to  the  invalid's  deck-chair,  near  which  was 
Pauline.  Pauline  reddened.  She  was  rather 
shy  in  her  father's  presence.  The  Japanese 
had  shown  her,  too,  the  loveliest  bits  of 
china,  and  had  explained  to  her  some  of 
the  queer  symbols  upon  them.  He  brought 
forth  small  objects  in  gold  and  silver 
which  would  have  made  an  expert  in 
such  matters  leap  for  joy,  and  handkerchiefs 
and  scarfs  of  finest  silk,  and  fans  of  fairy- 
like texture  and  workmanship.  Pauline  loved 
to  look  at  all  these  things  and  to  hear  the  man 
talk.  He  told  her  of  the  great  chrysanthe- 
mum show  in  his  country,  and  of  the  per- 
fection to  which  these  flowers  are  carried 
there: 


i 


A  Journey. 


123 


"  Because,"  said  he,  "  they  are  the  emblem 
of  the  Mikado,  the  Son  of  Heaven." 

He  described  the  temple  of  Buddha,  G<ite  of 
the  Eternal,  and  the  tea-houses,  and  the 
shrines,  which  were  a  dream  of  loveliness, 
and  the  bazars  and  silk-shops,  and  the  divine 
mountain  rising  out  of  the  sea,  and  the  coun- 
try fragrant  and  glowing  with  pink-and-white 
cherry-blossoms. 

"  When  1  am  big  I  would  like  to  go  there," 
fiaid  Pauline  to  her  mother. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  with  a 
half-melancholy  smile,  "  who  knows  how  far 
those  little  i'eet  will  have  to  carry  you  ?  " 

Pauline^s  account  of  the  Japanese  collec- 
tion inspired  Rebecca  with  a  great  desire  to 
see  it.  But  the  Japanese  was  inexorable.  To 
Pauline  and  to  Pauline  alone  would  he  show 
it. 

"  Perhaps  he  only  likes  to  show  them  to 
children,"  said  Pauline  in  explanation. 

The  two  days  on  shipboard  passed  all  too 
quickly.  The  sun  grew  warmer  and  warmer 
as  the  ship  sped  southward.  Pauline  loved  to 
stand  on  the  main  deck,  outside  of  the  great 
saloon,  and  let  the  wind  blow  in  and  out  of  her 
hair,  and  the  salt  spray  moisten  her  cheeks. 


i 


lt> 


124 


A  Journey. 


At  last  the  green  hills  of  the  land  they 
were  approaching  came  in  sight.  Pauline's 
father  called  her  to  see  the  first  sight  of  land, 
and  the  pilot  approaching  in  a  tiny  boat. 

"  What  is  a  pilot  ?  "  asked  Pauline. 

"  A  man  that's  got  to  bring  us  safe  through 
the  reefs/'  answered  her  father. 

Mrs.  Archer  was  also  on  deck  in  her 
steamer-chair  comfortably  arranged  vdth 
cushions  and  rugs,  so  that  together  they  all 
saw  the  water  with  its  marvellous  ^Teen  color, 
so  clear,  as  it  nears  the  shore,  that  the  coral 
reef  is  visible  below. 

"  It  looks  like  a  great  beach  where  it  would 
be  lovely  to  run,"  cried  Pauline,  "  and  it  isn't 
so  very  far  down." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  !  "  said  her  father.  "  The 
water  here  is  more  fathoms  deep  than  you 
would  care  to  count." 

Pauline  politely  said  good-by  to  the  captain 
and  the  passengers,  especially  the  Japanese, 
before  leaving  the  ship.  She  was  delighted 
to  land  on  that  lovely  shore.  They  drove 
along  a  smooth,  level  road  towards  the  hoftely 
and  the  child  had  h^^r  first  glimpse  of  the 
wonderful  tropical  vegetation,  the  tall  palms, 
the  flowering  shrubs,  the  rich  bloom  of  the 


,:  I, 


«■ 


A  Journey. 


12S 


South.  A  black  man  driving  a  long  two- 
wheeled  cart  drawn  by  a  donkey  saluted  them 
from  under  his  wide-brimmed  straw  hat  with 
ft  grin.  His  appearance  made  Pauline  realize 
that  she  was  really  in  a  foreign  land.  At  the 
hotel  they  had  splendid  rooms  looking  out 
over  the  harbor  and  far  to  seaward,  and  going 
down  to  supper  Mr.  Archer  was  as  charmed 
with  the  flavor  of  the  celebrated  "angel- 
fish"  as  his  daughter  was  with  the  almo^ 
magical  fruits  put  before  her.  It  all  seemed 
like  a  page  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  and 
Pauline  was  eager  for  the  night  to  be  over  and 
another  day  to  begin. 


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CHAPTER  XIII. 

REBECCA    GETS    A    FKIGHT. 

Pauline  had  asked  Rebecca  to  wake  her 
very  early  next  morning;  but  the  little  girl 
was  really  up  first,  and  dressing  hastily  she 
made  her  way  to  the  hotel  veranda,  which  ran 
all  around  the  building,  just  outside  their 
rooms.  She  stood  a  moment  and  looked  out 
over  the  water,  dotted  with  fishing-sails  or 
darkened  by  the  shadows  of  great  vessels. 
Then,  as  no  one  seemed  to  be  astir,  she  deter- 
mined to  run  all  around  the  veranda  for  exer- 
cise, going  swiftly  and  lightly  on  her  little 
feet. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  wake  any  people  up,'* 
she  said  to  herself. 

So  began  the  first  long,  happy  day  of  her 
experience  in  the  southland,  which  was  so  full 
of  delights,  of  novelty,  of  beautiful  sights 
and  happy  experiences  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible in  these  limits  to  mention  them.     In 

fact,  the  story  of  Pauline  Archer  would  have 

126 


ili-i  -   ;■!    % 


I .' 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


127 


to  be  made  very  long  indeed  to  detail  all  that 
she  did  and  all  that  occurred  to  her  in  the 
southland.  And  her  pleasure  was  enhanced 
by  the  fact  that,  almost  from  the  first,  her 
mother  began  to  improve  and  was  able  to  sit 
out  upon  the  veranda  a  great  part  of  every 
day.  Pauline  continued  her  habit  of  daily 
talks  with  her  mother,  only  that  these  oc- 
curred more  frequently  and  with  less  danger 
of  overtiring  the  invalid. 

"  1  feel  rather  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  dream," 
said  Pauline,  "and  might  wake  any  day  to 
find  a  good  many  things  gone." 

"  1  am  so  glad  you  are  enjoying  it  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Archer. 

"  And  you  can  enjoy  some  of  it,"  said  Pau- 
line, "  you  are  so  much  better.  You  will  be 
quite  well  by  the  time  we  go  back  to  Nevv 
York,  but  then  I  shall  be  gone  away." 

For  Pauline  knew  that  it  had  been  decided 
she  was  to  go  to  school  for  the  winter  term. 
She  had  an  abnormal  fear  of  school,  being 
so  shy  as  to  dread  being  placed  among  a  lot 
of  strange  girls. 

"Don't  let  that  spoil  your  present  enjoy- 
ment," said  Mrs.  Archer.  "  You  will  find  as 
you  grow  older  that  things  we  dread  are  never 


P  w 


Lit! 


128 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright 


60  bad  as  they  seem,  and  everything  passes 
quickly." 

"  After  I  go  to  school,"  said  Pauline,  with 
a  quaint  little  air  of  solemnity,  "  1  won't  be 
a  little  girl  any  more.  It'll  be  just  as  if  I 
came  to  an  end  and  turned  into  a  big  person." 

"  What  an  odd  idea  ! "  said  Mrs.  Archer; 
but  her  smile  was  sad,  and  Pauline  did  not 
guess  at  the  pain  with  which  she  acknowledged 
to  herself  the  truth  of  the  child's  remark. 
"  But  don't  think  of  such  things  now.  Try 
to  be  as  happy  as  possible  while  you  stay  here. 
Papa  is  going  to  take  you  on  some  excur- 
sions very  soon." 

"  That  will  be  lovely,"  said  Pauline,  and  she 
made  a  brave  effort  to  please  her  mother 
by  trying  to  dismiss  all  misgivings  for  the 
future.  "  And  I  am  going  this  afternoon  to 
the  Cedar  Walk  with  Rebecca.  Oh,  I  wish 
you  could  go  there,  mamma.  The  trees  just 
meet  over  your  head — strange,  strange  trees, 
not  like  those  we  see  at  home;  and  some  have 
flowers  on  them,  nnd  there's  a  nice  smooth 
path  with  places  to  sit  down,  and  green  bushes 
and  things  where  I  can  hide." 

"  When  I  am  stronger  we  shall  take  some 
drives,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  "  and  then  you  can 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fr,'  \t. 


129 


show  me  everything.     But  here  is  Rebecca 
coining  to  get  you." 

"  We  are  going  to  pick  some  bananas/'  said 
Pauline,  "  and  Kebecca  is  going  to  take  me 
another  day  to  get  some  fruit  '  with  a  queer 
name/  liebecca  said." 

"  Pomegranates,  perhaps,"  said  her  mother. 
"  You  will  see  how  very  pretty  they  are." 

"I  once  read  a  lovely  story  where  there 
were  pomegranates,"  said  Pauline;  "they 
sound  rather  nice  and  like  fairy-stories." 

As  Pauline  walked  away  with  liebecca, 
Reginald  Archer  strolled  over  to  his  wife,  seat- 
ing himself  on  the  rail  of  the  veranda  beside 
her  chair.  She  repeated  to  him  what  Pau- 
line had  said  about  coming  to  an  end  when 
she  went  to  school. 

"  I  suppose  it's  true,  in  a  measure/'  he  said 
rather  ruefully.  "  She'll  boil  down  to  be  like 
all  the  others.     She's  a  bit  different  now." 

"  I  fancy  she  will  always  have  an  original 
mind,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  "but  I  suppose 
she  must  lose  some  of  her  individuality." 
Then  she  added  after  a  pause:  "It's  hard 
having  to  send  her  away.  But  I  believe 
it's  for  the  best.  She  might  grow  up  too  self- 
absorbed  and  become  even  morbid." 


180 


Bebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


1 

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,  M 

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M- 

i'A^ 

"  She  has  too  much  pluck  and  grit  for  that," 
said  Reginald.  '*  But  if  she's  so  soon  to  come 
to  an  end,  we  must  give  her  a  good  send-off 
while  she's  here.  You  don't  mind  my  talk- 
ing slang,  Ada  ?  " 

"  You're  incurable  in  that  line,  Eeggie," 
s^id  his  wife,  with  her  sweet  smile.  She  was 
really  pleased  at  his  appreciation  of  the  finer 
points  of  Pauline's  character.  Men  are  some- 
times careless  in  observing  such  things. 

Meanwhile  Pauline  was  at  the  Cedar  Walk, 
busily  engaged  with  the  variety  of  plays  she 
invented  for  herself.  This  new  and  strange 
world  gave  her  fancy  new  scope.  The  flow- 
ers were  people,  the  shrubbery  was  a  forest, 
and  she  was  alternately  a  hermit,  an  outlaw,  a 
hunter,  or  an  animal.  Sometimes  she  was 
even  a  bird. 

Rebecca  sat  sunning  herself  on  one  of  the 
benches,  with  that  happy  faculty  for  doing 
nothing  which  so  many  people  possess.  All 
the  time  Pauline  darted  in  and  out  of  the 
thickets,  hiding  in  the  tall  grass,  standing  in 
the  midst  of  flowering  shrubs,  or  swinging 
herself  on  the  branches  of  trees.  The  heat 
never  seemed  to  affect  her  any  more  than  did 
the  sun,  peeping  under  her  wide  hat,  impair 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


131 


the  exquisite  fairness  of  her  skin.  Rebecca, 
on  the  other  hand,  deciared  that  the  sun  and 
the  air  made  her  drowsy  and  feel  "  jest  like 
sittin'  still."  Being  engaged,  then,  in  her 
favorite  occupation,  and  presently  nodding 
asleep,  she  was  startled  by  a  hissing,  rustling, 
and  crackling  in  the  grass  just  behind  her. 

"Hist!"  cried  she, starting,  "what's  that?" 
Her  vague  fears  in  these  regions  were  equally 
divided  between  wild  beasts  and  snakes. 

"  Sakes  alive  !  "  she  muttered,  "  I  hope  it's 
none  of  them  things," 

Her  senses  being  partially  dulled  by  the 
forty  winks  she  had  been  taking,  she  sat  per- 
fectly still,  not  daring  to  look  around.  On 
and  on  it  came,  nearer  and  nearer,  still  hiss- 
ing and  rustling,  till  at  last  the  terrified  wo- 
man felt  a  clammy  substance  touch  her  neck. 

"  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  me  !  "  she  cried,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet.    "  I'm  bit  by  a  serpent  !  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  serpent,  and  I  just  darted  out 
my  fang  and  bit  you." 

"What's  that  you  say?"  cried  Rebecca — 
"  *  he  darted  out  bis  fnng  and  bit  me '  ? 
Then  I'm  a  dead  woman." 

Pauline  was  rather  puzzl-^d  bv  Rebecca's 
pantomimic    movements    and     her   terrified 


|T     I' 


':» 


ii 


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i;5. 


ii 

1  r- 

■J 

'3 

i  1 

'i 

r' 

Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright, 


exclamations.  She  thought  her  nurse  was 
entering  into  the  play  as  she  had  never  taken 
the  trouble  to  do  before. 

"  I'm  a  poisonous  snake,"  said  Pauline; 
"  my  bite  is  deadly." 

"  0  Lord  !  0  Lord  !  "  groaned  Rebecca. 
*'  If  I  had  only  stayed  in  New  York  !  I  seem 
to  feel  the  poison  goinf  through  my  veins/* 
added  she,  turning  with  abject  terror  towards 
the  little  girl. 

"  But,"  said  Pauline,  stepping  forward, 
with  a  change  of  tone,  "  there  is  a  doctor  pass- 
ing juf-t  now." 

"  Oh,  for  the  land's  sake  call  him  ! "  cried 
Rebecca,  trembling. 

"  Well,  of  course.  I'm  the  doctor,"  said 
Pauline. 

"  You  ?  "  cried  the  stupefied  Rebecca. 

"  I'm  not  the  snake  any  more,"  said  Pau- 
line, "  I'm  the  doctor  stepping  up  to  look  at 
your  neck  and  tell  you  that  if  he  can't  find  an 
antidote  yon'll  he  dead  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Great  Scott  !  "  cried  the  nurse.  Then,  a 
sudden  thought  strikins"  her,  "  Were  you  only 
playinsr  ?'*  she  asked,  with  a  trembling  eager- 
ness which  astonished  Pauline.  She  noticed, 
too,  that  Rebecca  looked  very  pale. 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


133 


tt 


Why,  of  course,"  said  Pauline.     In  her 
tum,  she  began  to  be  a  little  afraid  of  Ee- 
becca.      "Perhaps   she's   going   crazy,"    she 
thought,  "  from  the  heat." 
"  Was  it  you  touched  my  neck  just  now  ?  " 
"  Yes;  that  was  when  I  was  the  snake." 
"But  your  hands  aren't  moist  and  dank- 
like,"  said  Eebecca  doubtfully,  "  and  I  heerd 
a  queer  noise." 

"That  was  when  I  was  just  darting  my  fang 
at  yon,"  said  Pauline. 

"  But  the  cold,  clammy  thing  ?  "  persisted 
the  nurse. 

"  It  was  one  of  those  big  leaves  there,"  said 
Pauline. 

"  The  Almighty  be  praised  ! "  cried  Re- 
becca, easting  up  her  eyes  with  sanctimo- 
nious fervor.  Her  relief  was  so  great  that  it 
was  some  moments  before  her  wrath  began  to 
rise  against  the  innocent  cause  of  her  terror. 

*'  The  imp  of  Satan  ! "  she  said  to  herself 
furiously,  "  in  another  minnit  I'd  ha'  swooned 
away  and  died,  mebbe,  of  the  fright."  Aloud 
she  said:  "  Now  I  tell  you  what,  Miss  Pauline, 
•if  ever  you  dare  play  a  trick  like  that  on  me 
again,  I'll  tell  your  pa." 
.    "I  didn't  mean  it  for  a  trick,"  said  Pau- 


4 


r  .1^ 


M 


134 


Bebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


.  I 


line  quietly.  "  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  be 
a  snake  darting  in  and  out  of  the  grassy  but 
when  you  fell  asleep  you  must  have  for- 
gotten," 

"  I  wasn't  no  more  asleep  than  you  were/' 
said  Kebecca  angrily. 

"  Weren't  you  ?  "  queried  Pauline.  "  Oh, 
well,  1  just  thought  you  were,  because  your 
eyes  were  closed  and  your  head  was  down  like 
this." 

"  Well,  anyway,  you  came  near  havin'  my 
death  at  your  door,  and  then  you'd  be  a  real 
murderer,"  said  the  nurse  viciously. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  fearful  to  be  a  murderer," 
said  Pauline,  half  to  herself,  "  and  wake  in  the 
morning  and  know  that  you  were  !  Pm  very 
sorry  I  frightened  you,  Bebecca." 

Rebecca's  face  was  suddenly  wreathed  in 
smiles. 

"  There's  your  pa  with  some  gentlemen.  I 
think  he  wants  you.  Miss  Pauline." 

"  I  hope  you're  not  a  snake  any  more," 
said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  as  Mr.  Archer  in- 
troduced his  little  daughter.  Pauline,  getting 
very  red,  wondered  how  the  gentleman  knew. 
As  Mr.  Archer,  too,  looked  puzzled,  the 
stranger  said; 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


135 


it 


I  witnessed  a  very  amusing  little  scene 
just  now,  where  Miss  Pauline  was  not  Mother 
Eve,  but  the  serpent,  who  very  much  dis- 
turbed the  nurse's  paradise  for  a  few 
minutes." 

^'  How  was  that,  Pauline  ? "  asked  her 
father. 

"  I  was  a  pretending  snake,  and  Eebecca 
thought  1  was  a  real  one  and  got  afraid,"  said 
Pauline  simply. 

"No  wonder,"  said  her  father.  "  You'd 
better  let  her  know  next  time  before  you 
undertake  so  startling  a  role." 

He  spoke  somewhat  gravely,  but  Pauline 
did  not  try  to  excuse  herself  by  saying  that  her 
nurse  had  been  asleep. 

The  strange  gentleman  who  had  witnessed 
the  scene  took  a  farcy  to  Pauline  on  the 
spot,  i^rom  that  time  forlh  till  the  end  of 
their  stay  he  showed  her  many  a  kindness. 
As  her  father  had  had  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  him,  this  Mr.  Thorpe  became  a  very  in- 
timate acquaintance  of  ti  Archers,  as  did 
his  ^rjfe  and  daughter. 

Pauline  promised  Rebecca  that  she  would 
always  let  her  know  when  she  was  about  to 
assume  an  alarming  part. 


V ^ — '■ 


«?i 


,'  'Ji.k 


:i 


Ifi;; 


X36 


Rebecca  Gets  a  Fright. 


"  When  I'm  going  to  be  a  crocodile  snap- 
ping about,  ni  tell  you  before." 
"  I  wish  you'd  snap  at  something  else  than 


me 


ff 


"  Well,  so  I  can,"  assented  Pauline.  "  Til 
pretend  those  big  white  flowers  are  people's 
heads." 


V    ' 


J 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


A  NEW  PLAYMATE. 

Mr.  Thorpe  came  to  the  hotel  with  his 
wife  and  daughter.  Mrs.  Archer  was  not 
well  enough  to  see  them,  but  her  husband 
and  Pauline  were  there.  Lucy  Thorpe  was 
taller  than  Pauline  and  much  broader  and 
stouter,  with  honest  brown  eyes,  and  ruddy 
cheeks  that  hung  down.  She  was  very  Kke 
her  mother,  a  good-natured  and  easy-going 
woman  who  said  very  little  and  that  in  a 
deep,  almost  gruff  voice. 

Lucy  invited  Pauline  to  come  over  the  next 
day  and  play  tennis  with  her. 

"I  don't  play  very  well,"  said  Pauline,  '-'but 
I  like  it  very  much,  and  if  mamma  says  I  may, 
I'll  be  sure  to  go." 

It's  good  fun,"  said  Lucy. 
T  like  anything  with  running  in  it,"  said 
Pauline.    "  It  makes  you  feel  as  if  you  were 
flying." 

m 


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tc 


m 


mm 


138 


A  New  Playmate. 


,1 


l''f., 


(   ' 


"  I  ean't  run  very  fact,"  said  the  bigger 
girl.     "  Tm  ratlier  stout,  you  see." 

"  How  did  you  get  stout  ?  "  inquired  Pau- 
line with  interest.     "  I  think  Td  like  to  be." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Lucy.  "  But 
papa  and  mamma  are  going  now.  Be  sure 
you  come  to-morrow  afternoon." 

\^f?r'ine  promised,  and  the  next  day,  just 
as  t  an  was  going  down  a  little,  Mr.  Archer 
brougiit  Pauline  to  a  long,  low  house,  over  the 
roof  of  which  moi  (lower-laden,  sweet-smelling 
trees.  Paulino  thought  she  had  never  seen 
so  delightful  a  house,  as  it  stood  in  that  shel- 
tered nook,  with  deep  veWet-like  grass  all 
around,  interspersed  with  beds  of  gorgeous 
flowers  btrange  to  the  little  girl,  and  with  an 
orchard  in  the  background  full  of  rich  and 
carefully  cultivated  tropical  fruits.  In  the 
garden  Pauline  first  saw  a  humming-bird,  and 
could  scarcely  believe  at  first  he  was  real,  his 
form  was  so  dainty,  his  brilliant  hues  shining 
like  gold  enamel  in  the  sunlight  as  he  flitted 
from  bough  to  bough. 

She  had  seen  a  number  of  beautiful  birds 
since  she  came  to  this  region,  some  of  them 
with  many-colored  plumage,  scarlet  or  yellow 
or  green,  and  the  sweetest  of  sweet  sounds 


A  Netv  Playmate. 


139 


often  reached  her  ears  from  the  branches  of 
the  trees. 

"I  wouldn't  catch  him  if  I  could,"  she  said 
to  Lucy  Thorpe;  "it's  nicest  to  see  him  on  the 
leaves.  He's  like  a  bird  out  of  Grimm's. 
Perhaps  he's  an  enchanted  prince." 

Lucy  stared. 

"  What  puts  all  those  queer  thoughts  into 
your  head  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Pauline  reflectively. 
^'  Are  they  queer  ?  " 

"  Come  on,  catch  the  ball  ! "  said  Lucy. 

Pauline  was  a  perfect  treasure  for  tennis. 
[Ter  light  and  graceful  form  fairly  flew  over 
the  sward,  and  as  she  was  always  taking  exer- 
cise in  some  shape  or  form,  she  was  what 
athletes  would  call  in  good  training. 
Many  an  hour  was  spent  in  that  shaded  court 
in  this  most  fascinating  of  sports. 

Mr.  Archer,  before  they  left  that  fir^  after- 
noon, invited  the  Thorpes  to  join  them  in  the 
excursion  which  he  meant  to  take  next  day  in 
a  yacht  hired  for  the  purpose. 

"  Pve  been  to  all  those  places  before,  of 
course,"  said  Lucy,  "  because  I  was  born  here, 
you  see;  but  it  will  be  lots  of  fun  to  go  there 
over  again  ^^dth  you.  And  I  suppose  you'll 
imagine  lots  of  things." 


p    ' 


140 


A  New  Playmate. 


If: 

\i  ■ 


tc 


■■•ft. 


Perhaps  I  may,"  said  Pauline;  "  I  gener- 
ally do." 

"  You're  an  old-fashioned  crah,"  responded 
Lucy  in  her  hearty  way,  "  but  I  like  you." 

Pauline  went  home  to  spend  a  quiet  evening 
hour  with  her  mother,  during  which  they  said 
the  Kosary  together,  as  they  often  did. 

"  I  look  forward  to  these  talks,"  she  said 
gravely. 

But  indeed  she  had  little  idea  how  the  talks 
with  her  mother  had  been  instrumental  in 
j'jrr.ing  her  character.  In  the  first  place, 
they  were  a  safety-valve.  P^very  thought 
came  out  freely.  Her  mother  never  repressed 
her,  and  then  there  was  the  opportunity  for 
advice,  caution,  sympathy. 

"  \  ou  always  remember,  dear,  to  say  your 
morningand  evening  prayers,"  said  her  mother 
on  this  particular  afternoon. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Pauline,  "  I  always  remem- 
ber. I  kneel  down  before  Holy  Mary's  statue 
and  say  them  very  slowly." 

"That's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  "for 
sometimes,  when  there  are  many  things  to 
distract  us,  we  forget  the  one  thing  neces- 
sary." 

"  I  go  to  church  every  day  for  a  visit,  if  I 


A  New  Playmate. 


141 


can,"  said  Pauline.  "  And  then  i  read  one  of 
those  little  Lives  of  the  Saints  you  gave  mo. 
I  aJways  mark  the  place  carefully  in  the  book, 
and  tell  Rebecca  not  to  touch  it  till  I  come 
again." 

"  You  leam  many  "vise  things  that  way," 
said  Mrs.  Archer,  "  more  than  all  the  learning 
of  the  world." 

"  Are  saints  always  grown  up  ? "  asked 
Pauline. 

"  No,  there  have  been  many  children  who 
were  saints.  They  can  do  God's  work  just 
as  well." 

"  Does  God  let  children  do  work  for  Him  ?  " 
the  little  girl  asked,  looking  awe-struck  at  the 
sky,  which  was  full  of  a  tropical  richness  of 
colons, mellowing, it  seemed,  the  gorgeous  hues 
of  the  flowers  of  the  luxuriant  earth  beneath. 

"  I  think  He  likes  their  work  best  of  all," 
said  Mrs.  Archer. 

I  never  did  any,"  said  Pauline. 
What  you  have  just  been  telling  me — 
your  prayers,  your  visits  to  the  church,  your 
reading — what  is  all  that  but  God's  work  ?  " 

Pauline  was  still,  reflecting. 

"  Saints  always  have  light  at  the  back  of 
their  head,  and  sometimes  they  have  things 


(( 


(( 


i 


142 


A  New  Playmate. 


ill' 

I!' 

it  II 


1*5 

K 


is 


I  'I 


.1   ,?i  I 


in  their  hands,"  she  observed  presently,  "  and 
they  hold  themselves  very  straight,  like  this." 

Pauline  put  herself  in  position,  and  a  ray  of 
the  western  light  fell  upon  her  as  an  aureola. 

"  But  angels,"  she  continued,  "  are  differ- 
ent. They  have  wings,  and  little  crowns  on 
their  heads,  and  look  this  way." 

She  bent  forward,  assuming  the  attitude  of 
the  heavenly  spirits  which  she  had  seen  in 
pictures. 

Mrs.  Archer  alwaj's  lot  Pauline  talk  on  as 
she  wished,  and  more  than  ever  now  when  the 
time  was  drawing  near  when  she  would  have 
to  find  other  sympathy  and  other  confidants. 
She  led  her  on  now  to  speak  of  her  new  friend, 
Lucy  Thorpe,  and  of  the  projected  excursion 
for  the  morrow.  And  then  they  sat  silent  a 
while,  the  radiance  of  the  sky  seeming  to 
melt  and  blend  into  the  waters  till  they,  too, 
were  as  a  sea  of  pearl  transfigured.  And  the 
glory  seemed  to  enfold  the  mother  and 
daughter  as  they  sat,  apart  from  all  the  world 
for  those  few  moments.  It  was  a  type  of  that 
spiritual  life,  the  deeper  and  truer  one,  which 
the  mother,  through  the  long  years  of  suffer- 
ing, had  planted  and  fostered  in  her  little 
daughter. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


A   DELIGHTFUL   EXCUKSION. 

The  morning  dawned  hriglit  and  fair.  Mr. 
Archer  and  Pauline  were  soon  joined  at  the 
landing  by  the  Thorpes,  and  it  did  not  take 
them  long  to  get  aboard,  that  they  might  en- 
joy the  coolest  part  of  the  day. 

"We  will  see  as  much  as  we  can  to-day," 
observed  Mr.  Archer.  "  But  I  mean  to  take 
several  days^  yacfhting,  till  Pauline  and  I  have 
exhausted  the  sights." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Thorpe,  ''  and  this 
is  about  as  good  and  seaworthy  a  craft  as  you 
could  get  for  the  purpose.  This  man  Dick 
is  a  good  sailor,  and  his  son  there  is  an  active 
lad,  who  assists  him  excellently." 

The  delights  of  a  yachting  trip  have  been 
often  put  on  paper,  but  they  must  be  felt  to  be 
thoroug-hly  understood.  On  a  fresh,  cool  day, 
when  the  air  is  brisk  and  the  waiter  a  little 
rough,  one  sails  along  before  the  breeze  with 
the  feeling  that  the  world  is  a  new  place,  with 

143 


1 


'  i 


T 


144 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


m  'I 


I 


111' 


,  ;:, 


( '  '   I. 


an  exhilaration  of  spirits,  a  courage,  and  a 
dieerfulness  scarcely  ever  to  be  felt  at  any 
other  time. 

Pauline  and  Lucy  sat  together  at  one  end 
of  the  boat,  their  elders  at  the  other.  They 
irere  both  enthusiastic  over  everything,  and 
communicated  their  sentiments  freely  to  each 
other. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  enjoy  myself  any 
more,"  said  Pauline. 

It  would  take  far  too  long  to  tell  all  that 
they  saw,  as  the  yacht  sailed  in  and  out 
among  those  fairy-like  islands,  with  all  their 
wonders,  strange  to  Northern  eyes  as  some 
Eastern  fable.  On  one  of  the  islands  was  a 
huge  arsenal  and  dockyard  which  Mr.  Archer 
and  Mr.  Thorpe  found  very  interesting,  but 
for  whioh  Pauline  did  not  care  very  much. 
They  went  into  an  enormous  cave,  too,  hung 
with  stalactites,  and  the  little  girl  was  speech- 
lees  with  awe. 

But  what  Pauline  really  enjoyed  was  when 
flhe  and  Lucy  were  let  loose  on  a  coral  reef 
twisted  into  all  sorts  of  fantastic  shapes,  and 
where  they  heard  the  history  of  the  busy  little 
insects  that  work  these  wonders.  There  were 
all  sorts  of  pretty  nooks  and  queer  comers 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


149 


about,  and  caves  wherein  «e"a-nymplh8  or  mer- 
maids would  have  delighted  to  dwell.  They 
stayed  tliere  some  time,  as  it  had  been  agreed 
that  the  yachting  party  should  take  lundheon 
ashore.  Meantime  Pauline  played  at  a  variety 
of  games,  one  of  which  was  that  efbe  was  a 
pirate  wlio  hospitably  entertained  a  ship- 
wrecked mariner,  in  the  person  of  Lucy,  in 
her  cavern  near  the  sea.  The  pirate's  table 
was  supplied  from  the  contents  of  a  basket 
which  the  children  carried,  every  article  of 
food  receiving  an  appropriate  name  and  being 
brought  out,  as  Pauline  said,  from  "  a  hole  in 
the  rock,  wtiich  the  pirate  had  for  a  cup- 
board." 

Pauline  had  just  changed  into  a  mermaid, 
to  the  wonder  of  the  prosaic  Lucy,  and 
was  singing,  with  a  harp  made  of  seaweed 
stretched  upon  sticks,  when  it  became  time  to 
go  aboard  the  yacht  again.  They  sailed  up  a 
beautiful  salt  lake  to  explore  some  places  in 
that  direction. 

"You  mu^  have  a  look  at  the  Devil's 
Hole,"  said  Mr.  Thorpe.  "  That  isn^  a  very 
pretty  name  for  the  youn^  '  dies,  but  they 
may  call  it  'Neptune's  Grotto,'  if  they  like 
that  better." 


146 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


". 

S\' 

\  : 

C' 

■| 

ITe  showed  them,  when  they  had  reached 
the  grotto,  what  a  number  and  variety  of  fish 
were  daxting  about  in  the  water,  which 
seemed  to  catch  warm  tints  from  the  su  "11 
it  glowed  like  an  opal.  As  the  afternoou  was 
fine  and  the  night  promised  to  be  a  moonlit 
one,  it  was  arranged  that  the  yacht  should  land 
them  lor  supper  at  "  Fairyland."  Tlie  name 
delighted  Pauline.  How  oiten  she  and  little 
Mary  had  talked  about  an  imaginary  fairy- 
land !  and  now  she  was  going  to  a  real  one. 
The  fancy  could  indeed  have  painted  nothing 
lovelier  than  this  inlet,  framed  in  a  wild  mass 
of  mangroves,  with  many-hued  aquatic  pla'^ts, 
making  the  shore  resplendent  with  < 
Softly  above  them  waved  the  mysterious  caia- 
bash-trees  sung  by  the  poet.  The  sky  was 
faintly  colored,  with  streamers  of  light  break- 
ing rainbow-like  into  pale  violet,  green,  and 
pink,  reflected  in  the  cool  crystalline  waters, 
while  the  moon,  dimly  visible,  arose  as  though 
impatient  to  climb  that  exquisite  horizon. 
The  ohime  of  distant  bells  seemed  the  dim 
echo  of  some  far-away  country. 

Children  are  mistakenly  supposed  to  caie 
little  for  natural  scenery,  but  they  very  often 
feel  its  beauty  intensely,  without  being  able  to 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


147 


express  their  feelings.  It  was  so  with  Pauline. 
The  beauty  of  the  scene  lilled  her  with  a 
strange  happiness.    But  she  said  nothing. 

As  the  yaoht  was  about  to  put  out  from 
shore  for  the  homeward  journey,  the  moon 
sent  a  soft  shower  of  silver  over  the  water. 

"  It's  made  a  path  for  us  just  big  enough 
to  sail  upon,"  said  Pauline  to  Lucy.  Her  blue 
eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the  orb  of  night 
as  though  she  would  penetrate  the  secret  which 
it  has  kept  from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 
"I  wonder  what  it's  like  up  there,"  she 
said  to  Lucy;  "if  it's  a  big  palace  all  light, 
or  a  city  with  walls  made  out  of  brightness  ?  " 
"  It's  almost  as  big  as  our  world,"  said  prac- 
tical Lucy.  "I  learned  that  in  a  book  at 
school." 

Pauline  continued  to  look  intently  upwards 
for  some  moments,  while  the  yacht  flew  on 
under  a  favoring  breeze,  making  a  line  of 
white  foam,  silver-tipped  by  the  moon.  Mr. 
Archer  and  the  Thorpes  were  meantime  chat- 
ting .away  pleasantly,  while  at  one  end  of  the 
boat  sat  Dick,  the  master  of  the  craft,  and 
near  the  little  girls  was  his  son,  both  looking 
intently  and  impassively  out  over  the  water, 
as  at  a  mystery  they  could  never  solve.    Pau- 


Mi- 


148 


A  Delightful  Excursion, 


m 


■  I 


line  observed  the  boy  near  her  from  time  to 
time,  and  what  was  his  share  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  boat. 

"  I  wish  my  mother  had  been  with  us  to- 
day/' said  Pauline  wistful )y;  "  she  would  have 
loved  it." 

"  Your  mother's  nearly  always  ill,  isn't 
she  ?  "  asked  Lucy.    "  Mine's  very  strong." 

Pauline  gave  a  swift  glance  at  the  portly 
figure  and  mddy  cheeks  of  the  matron  at  the 
other  end  of  the  boat,  and  said: 

•*  Yes,  she  looks  strong,  I  think." 

Mr.  Thorpe  now  called  out  to  her: 

*'  Miss  Pauline,  I  have  just  been  telling  your 
father  of  some  places  to  which  he  must  take 
you  where  you  will  see  very  curious  things. 
One  of  these  is  monkeyland.  We  remember 
that,  don't  we,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa,"  said  Lucy,  laughing. 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  give  my  little  favorite 
an  account  of  our  adventures  there." 

Lucy,  nothing  loiath,  began.  She  was  not 
ordinarily  very  ready  of  speech,  but  this  was 
something  so  funny,  and  there  was  so  much 
to  tell,  that  she  did  not  hesitate. 

"  You  know  what  monkeys  are  ?  "  she  said 
to  Pauline. 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


149 


"  Ob,  yes.  I  saw  some  td  Central  Park,  and 
I  liked  them;  but  it  would  be  ever  so  much 
nicer  to  see  them  in  a  wood/' 

"  It  isn't  so  nice  as  you  think,"  said  Lucy. 
*''  We  went  into  a  grove  on  one  of  the  islands, 
a  good  way  from  here,  and  at  first  we  didn'^t 
see  anything,  and  1  was  just  playing  about, 
when  something  struck  me  on  the  ear.  I 
thought  it  was  papa  at  first,  and  jumped  up, 
^  "t  he  was  quite  far  off.  While  I  was  looking, 
something  caught  a  ribbon  I  had  at  mj  throat 
and  almost  choked  me,  and  then  ^  ;gan  to 
pull  my  hair.  I  screamed  and  ran  away.  I 
stood  near  a  tree,  I  was  so  frightened,  and  just 
then  a  hairy  paw  came  round  from  the  other 
side  of  the  tree  and  began  to  claw  at  my 
pocket,  where  there  were  some  nuts.  I  saw 
that  it  was  a  monkey,  and  I  gave  him  a  slap. 
He  ran  up  the  tree  and,  sitting  on  a  branch 
above,  jabbered  down  at  me  just  as  if  he  was 
scolding  or  calling  me  names." 

"  But  you  couldn't  understand  what  he 
said,"  said  Pauline,  mucli  interested. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Lucy,  "  he  wasn't 
speaking  any  language." 

"  Perhaps  he  spoke  a  language  that  other 
monkeys  can  understand." 


m 


160 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


m 


I  > 


J" ' 


r.    ' 


■  HI 


"  I  don't  believe  so;  it's  just  jabber,  jabber. 
But  J  tell  you  that  monkeys  are  perfect 
fiends.  Another  one  leaned  down  from  a 
tree  and  gave  me  a  horrid  pinch.  1  glared  at 
him,  but  he  wa?  looking  another  way,  as  if 
he  hadn't  done  anythinj^-.  As  soon  as  I  turned 
my  back  to  call  papa,  he  tickle^  my  neck  with 
the  branch  of  a  tree." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  cried  Pauline  gleefully. 

"  Pana  thought  we'd  better  run  for  it,  there 
were  such  lots  of  them  about;  but  as  soon  as 
we  ran,  they  began  to  pelt  us  from  above  with 
all  kinds  of  things.  A  cocoanut  almost 
smashed  papa's  hat;  his  head  might  easily  have 
been  broken,  and  he  got  hit  on  the  shoulder 
and  had  to  keep  dodging  all  the  time." 

Pauline  would  have  liked  to  laugh,  but  she 
wasn't  quite  sure  if  it  were  proper  to  laugh 
at  a  growTi-up  person's  misfortunes.  Lucy 
had  no  very  strong  sense  of  humor  and  didn't 
seem  to  see  the  comical  part  of  the  adventure. 
Mr.  Thorpe,  who  had  been  listening,  now 
joined  in  laughing  so  heartily  himself  that 
Pauline  felt  free  to  laugh  as  much  as  she 
pleased. 

"  I  can  tell  you  they  peppered  us,"  said  Mr. 
Thorpe,  "  with  nuts,  nutshells,  and  ever}"  once 


A  Delightful  Excursion. 


161 


't 


!e 


in  a,  while  with  a  cocoanut.  I  tried  throwing 
something  back  at  them,  but  they  replied  by 
a  perfect  volley,  as  if  they  were  led  on  by  la 
trained  commander.  I  struck  about  with  my 
stick,  and  that  kept  them  quiet  for  a  minute 
or  two.  I  suppose  they  changed  their  quarters, 
for  they  presently  bing-banged  from  another 
direction,  striking  my  shins  and  playing  the 
drum  on  Lucy's  hat,  their  faces  grinning  at  us 
from  every  direction,  as  they  hung  down  from 
the  branches  above  to  have  a  better  shot  at 
us.  We  made  a  run  for  a  deserted  house  that 
stood  just  outside  the  grove,  but,  bless  you  ! 
they  had  a  garrison  in  there,  and  some  big 
fellows  were  guarding  the  door  like  sentries, 
and  ch -ottering  as  if  they  were  challenging  us. 
"  These  last  didn't  seem  to  be  very  actively 
hostile,"  continued  Mr.  Thorpe.  "  I  gave  the 
fellows  at  the  door  some  nuts  J  had  with  me, 
and  they  instantly  sat  down  to  crack  and  eat 
them.  Lucy  had  some  candies  which  bribed 
the  other  belligerents,  so  that  they  surren- 
dered at  discretion,  and  we  left  the  whole 
fortful  of  them  munching  away,  while  we  stole 
out  through  the  door  farthest  from  the  grove. 
So  you  see.  Miss  Pauline  Archer,  what's  before 
you  if  you  go  to  the  country  of  the  monkeys." 


iii|| 


•r\; 


I 


152 


A  Delightful  Excursion, 


'3  'i  \ 


'< 


M* 


It  may  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Archer  gv  k  a 
detailed  account  of  the  day's  proceedings,  *nd 
of  the  funny  story  that  genial  Mr.  Thorpe  had 
told  about  the  monkeys.  Rebecca,  who  was 
always  curious  to  hear  what  was  going  on, 
came  in  for  a  full  share  of  the  narrative.  But 
she  got  more  than  she  bargained  for,  Pailine 
illustrating  the  subject  by  suddenly  swoop- 
ing down  from  a  bedpost  on  the  stooping  Re- 
becca, who  was  engaged  in  what  she  called 
*'  tidying  up  "  and  giving  her  just  "  a  teenie, 
weenie  pinch." 

"  Zou're  the  plaguiest  child  ! "  cried  the 
irate  nurse.  "  I  don't  think  there's  a  monkey 
among  them  could  match  you  for  tricks." 

"  If  I  could  wrinkle  my  face  up,"  said  Pau- 
line, "  and  if  I  had  long,  hairy  paws  t.Ad  kid 
hands." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AN  ADVENTURE  AND  A  FAREWELL. 

Of  course  it  would  be  hopeless  to  attempt 
to  tell  all  that  filled  up  the  ensuing  weeks  of 
Pauline's  stay  in  the  southland.    Her  mother 
was  so  much  stronger  that  they  were  able  to 
take  a  number  of  drives,  in  all  of  which  they 
saw  so  much  that  was  beautiful  and  instruc- 
tive that  it  would  fill  a  volume.    It  added  to 
Pauline's  pleasure  to  be  able  to  point  out  to 
her  mother  many  of  th-  places  which  were  al- 
ready familiar  to  herself.     But  the  time  for 
her   departure   had   almost    come,   and   the 
separation  was  to  be  a  very  trying  one  for 
both.    Mrs.  Archer  was  obliged  to  remain  in 
the  South  the  rest  of  the  winter,  and  Pauline's 
father  was  to  take  their  little  daughter  North 
to  the  convent  near  New  York,  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  winter  term. 

On  the  day  previous  to  Pauline's  departure 
her  father  had  determined  to  take  her  for  a 

153 


WW 

lii 


( ■ 


164 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell. 


^.i 


farewell  sail,  and  lie  invited  Lucy  Thorpe  to 
go  with  her.  It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  with 
every  promise  of  fine  weather — a  promise 
which  proved  all  too  treacherous.  They  had 
been  out  upon  the  water  for  about  two  hours, 
when  ominous-looking  clouds  began  to  come 
up  from  the  southwest,  and  Dick,  the  yachts- 
man, began  to  look  uneasy  and  to  call  out 
strange  orders  to  the  boy  which  Pauline  could 
not  understand.  She  tried  to  guess  from  the 
boy's  face  what  was  meant,  but,  weather- 
tanned  and  impassive,  it  gave  no  si?n  After 
a  consultation  with  Mr.  Archer,  the  boat  was 
turned  homewards.  But  it  no  lon'-^r  ^  ^v^l 
gayly  over  gold-tipped  waves,  nor  did  it  go 
so  fast,  for  the  wind,  though  growing  every 
moment  stronger,  was  against  them 

The  cloud  came  rolling  up  over  their  heads, 
like  a  great  battleship  ploughing  the  Avnves. 
An  awful  darkness  covered  the  sky.  Heavy 
rain  began  to  fall,  lightning  to  flash,  and 
thunder  to  growl.  Pauline's  heart  beat  quick- 
ly, but  she  gave  no  sisrn  of  fenr.  whii^  T  't^v 
Tliorpe  besran  to  cry  piteously.  No  one  heeded 
her,  for  the  energies  of  the  two  boatmen  j^nd 
Mr.  Archer  were  taxed  to  the  uttermost.  The 
water  lashed  furiously  about  them,  the  white 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell.         156 

foam  dashing  over  them,  wetting  all  on  board 
to  the  skin.  The  \Wnd  howled  as  it  came  in 
fierce  blasts  against  them. 

Suddenly  an  awful  thing  happened.  A 
wave,  a  puff  of  wind,  she  knew  not  what, 
dashed  the  boy  from  the  place  he  had  occu- 
pied, and  in  a  moment  Pauline  saw  his 
despairing  face  rising  on  the  waves  with  an 
agonized  look  upon  it. 

^^  A  prayer  came  swiftly  to  Pauline's  lips  : 
"  Sacred  Heart,  Holy  Mary,  save  him  !  " 

She  did  not  think  of  herself  or  of  any  other 
for  the  moment.  Lucy  Thorpe  threw  herself 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  in  ahject  ter- 
ror, while  a  cry  was  heard  above  the  tumult 
of  the  storm:  the  boatman  lamenting  his  son. 
"  We  must  put  back  and  try  to  pick  him 
up,"  cried  Mr.  Archer. 

"  But  who'll  mind  the  boat  ?  "  cried  Dick 
de^spainngly.  "  If  you  take  my  place,  who'll 
take  his  ?  " 

"  We  must  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  as  the 
boatman  only  too  willingly  obeyed  him.  "  At 
all  risks,  we  must  try  to  save  him." 

As  they  drew  near  the  spot,  the  yacht  hur- 
rying now  before  the  wind,  the  fijrure  of  the 
boy  was  seen  struggling  desperately,  but  with 


mtm 


pp 


'  / 


156 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell. 


!  i 


I  .    ..    , 
f 


evidently  failing  strength.  The  boatman 
seized  a  hoat-hook. 

*'  God  of  heaven,  if  I  could  let  go  a  mo- 
ment I "  he  cried.  "  But  if  I  do  we're  all 
lost." 

An  inspiration  came  to  Mr.  Archer  as  he 
glanced  at  Pauline  standing  erect  and  calm, 
it  seemed,  as  a  spirit. 

"  Can  you  do  this  one  moment  ?  "  he  cried, 
for  he  had  taken  the  boy's  place. 

"  I'll  try,"  she  said,  and  he  put  the  tiller 
Into  her  small  hands  tremblingly,  as  he  rushed 
to  the  other  end  of  the  vessel  to  leave  Dick 
free  for  the  attempted  rescue.  None  of  them 
would  ever  forget  that  awful  moment — the 
child  bending  her  whole  strength  to  the  task, 
which  was  no  light  one  for  those  weak  hands 
in  that  furious  gale.  Drenched  to  the  skin, 
cold,  shivering,  awe-struck,  the  brave  little 
heart  never  quailed.  The  thought  flashed  into 
her  mind  that  perhaps  God  wanted  her  to  help 
to  save  the  boy.  She  had  grasped  the  situa- 
tion, she  knew  what  was  going  to  be  done, 
and  she  prayed  aloud  unconsciously  till  the 
boy  was  thrown  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
Dick  making  the  first  rude  attempts  at  res- 
toration before  he  abandoned  him  to  fight  the 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell.        157 

battle  which  was  still  to  be  fought  before  they 
could  reach  the  shore. 

"  He  will  die,"  he  murmured;  "  but  any- 
wuy  he'll  be  buried  like  a  Christian  in  the 
earth,  and  that's  one  consolation." 

"  Quick,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  taking  Pauline's 
place,  "  here's  the  flask.  Pour  some  into  his 
mouth  and  rub  his  hands  with  it.  Then  take 
that  rugfrom  under  the  seat  and  cover  him  up." 

Pauline  was  beside  the  prostrate  figure, 
which  under  other  circumstances  would  have 
so  terrified  her,  deftly  obeying  her  father's 
instructions. 

"  She's  an  angel,"  murmured  the  bo-rtman 
to  himself,  "  and  no  fear  about  her  any  more 
than  if  she  was  j.  laying  on  the  beach." 

Pauline  indeed  seemed  indifferent  to  the 
fearful  crashes  of  thunder,  w'hich  in  her 
nursery  at  home,  at  night-time,  used  to  make 
her  cover  her  face  with  the  bedclothes.  The 
yacht  was  rocking  furiously,  the  very  toy  of 
the  waves,  and  her  light  figure  rolled  from 
side  to  side  as  she  knelt  at  her  strange  task. 

When  the  storm  was  over  and  the  yacht  lay 
at  anchor  at  one  of  the  adjoining  islands,  the 
boy  was  carried  into  a  dwelling,  where  further 
efforts  were  made  to  restore  him.     But  the 


I 


■'U 


Mil  :*'.'\ 


158 


An  Adventure  a?id  a  Farewell, 


doctor,  hearing  what  had  been  done,  was  of 
opinion  that  Pauhne  had  saved  his  life.  The 
little  girl  had  the  joy  of  seeing  her  patient 
open  his  eyes  before  she  and  her  father  and 
Lucy  Thorpe  left  the  place.  Mr.  Archer,  hav- 
ing arranged  that  no  expense  should  be  spared 
in  caring  for  the  lad,  and  finding  that  he  was 
out  of  danger,  hurried  home  as  fast  as  possi- 
ble, for  he  feared  the  effect  of  prolonged  anx- 
iety on  his  wife's  feeble  frame,  and  he  also 
knew  that  the  Thorpes  would  be  in  great  dis- 
tress. 

It  was  only  Mrs.  Archer's  firm  faith  in  God 
which  had  sustained  her  during  those  teiTible 
hours  of  suspense. 

"  I  never  ceased  asking  God  to  take  care  of 
you  both,"  said  Mrs.  Archer. 

"And  F"  did  in  a  wonderful  manner," 
said  Reginald  Archer  with  unusual  solemnity. 
"  If  you  had  been  there  you  would  have 
thought  it  little  short  of  a  miracle.  And  Pau- 
line is  an  out-and-out  heroine.  Only  for  her 
pluck  we'd  all  have  been  drowned." 

"  You  won't  tell  her  so,  dearest,"  requested 
Mrs.  Archer  with  some  anxiety.  "  Say,  if  you 
like,  that  she  did  her  duty  well  and  bravely, 
but  say  no  more. 


» 


! 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell. 


159 


But  indeed  the  heroism  of  the  little  girl 
was  on  every  tongue,  llebeeca  was  con- 
stantly finding  herself  the  centre  of  an  en- 
thusiastic group  in  which  the  praisee  of  her 
young  charge  were  sung  and  in  which  she 
joined  with  gratified  pride.  The  Thorpes, 
needless  to  say,  fairly  wept  for  joy  and  grati- 
tude. 

Pauline  was  quite  unmoved  by  all  this 
demonstration  ;  in  fact,  she  did  not  under- 
stand it,  nor,  even  to  the  day  of  her  death, 
could  she  feel  that  she  had  done  anything  ex- 
traordinary. The  time  of  her  departure  was 
postponed  to  give  her  time  to  recover  from  tho 
fatigue  and  excitement  and  lest  any  bad 
effects  might  follow  upon  the  long  exposure 
to  the  elements.  But  her  frame,  if  fragile  of 
mould,  was  sturdy,  and  she  was  soon  her  own 
bright  self,  playing  merrily  in  the  sunshine 
and  weaving  her  pretty  fancies. 

When  at  la&t  the  dreaded  day  came,  the  re- 
gret at  leaving  these  lovely  scenes  and  her 
new  friende,  the  Thorpes,  was  all  swallowed 
up  in  the  acute  sorrow  of  parting  with  her 
mother. 

When  she  went  down  to  get  into  the  car- 
riage with  her  father  and  Rebecca,  who  was 


It 


'■/ 


160 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell, 


r« 

I ' ' 


1 


i  i 


to  accompany  her,  quite  a  crowd  had  assem- 
bled to  Bee  her  off.  Among  them  were  the 
Thorpes,  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Thorpe  crying. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  us  in  New  York/' 
flaid  Pauline  to  Lucy,  trying  to  compose  her 
tear-stained  face  before  all  these  strangers. 
They  promifled,  mother  and  daughter,  kissing 
her  effueively.  Then  it  was  Mr.  Thorpe's 
torn,  end  the  tears  were  not  far  from  his  eyes 
as  he  pressed  into  the  child's  hand  a  little 
parcel.  When  she  opened  it  afterwards,  she 
found  that  it  was  a  level/  ring  with  a  minia- 
ture upon  it  set  in  pearls. 

*'  Bemember,  you  will  always  have  a  friend 
in  me,"  cried  the  kindly  gentleman,  "  for  you 
saved  my  Lucy's  life,  aa  Diok  here  tells  me. 
So,  good-by  and  God  bless  you,  Pauline 
Archer." 

His  words  found  an  echo  and  were  pres- 
ently repeated  in  a  hoarse  voice  close  by: 

"And  80  sriys  I  from  my  heart;  and  over 
again  I  says  it,  Qod  bless  you,  Pauline 
Archer." 

It  was  the  boatman,  Dick,  who  spok^,  ^f^ 
father  of  the  boy  who  had  been  sa^  '  iough 
as  was  his  appearance  and  uncoc  lonal  his 
words,  it  was  plain  that  he  indeeu  . .  oke    rom 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell.        161 


the  depfhs  of  a  grateful  heart.  The  crowd, 
in  which  was  a  strong  contingeait  of  fisher- 
folk  who  had  come  to  have  a  look  at  the  littlo 
heroine,  with  a  few  sailors  and  soldiers  frojia 
the  neighboring  fort,  took  up  the  cry.  For  a 
gallant  deed,  though  it  be  done  by  a  child,  al- 
ways appeals  to  the  human  heart.  So  the  cry 
was  raised  and  repeated  till  it  rang  like  a 
clarion  note: 

"  God  bless  Pauline  Archer  !  Three  cheers 
for  Pauline  Archer  !  " 

Pauline  shrank  back  into  the  carriage  "  ter- 
ribly ashamed,"  as  she  confided  to  Rebecca. 
But  her  father's  f?co  glowed  with  pride,  Re- 
becca smirked,  and  the  cry  went  straight  to 
one  lonely  heart.  The  mother,  a  soliiary  fig- 
ure, leaned  over  the  railing  of  the  upper  bal- 
cony, bearing  still  another  of  the  trials  of 
which  her  life  had  been  full.  It  cheered  her 
and  gave  her  hope  and  confidence,  and  it 
i^rought  back  to  her,  by  a  curious  association 
of  ideas,  the  blessing  of  the  cobbler  for  her 
and  for  Pauline.  Surely  the  benedictions 
of  simple,  grateful  heari;s  were  a  rare  treasure 
for  her  little  daughter  to  take  away  with  her 
into  that  unknown  future  now  beginning.  As 
the  carriage  drove  rapidly  away,  she  saw  Pan- 


J- '  ^ 


m 


162 


An  Adventure  and  a  Farewell. 


u  I 


I 


!■•!,* 


if:.  . 
1 

in  1 


I 


line  leaning  out  for  a  last  glimpse  of  her,  and 
caught  her  farewell  wave  of  the  hand.  She 
sark  back  into  her  chair,  murmuring  softly  to 
herself: 

" '  rt  :  o oms  ai?  if  I  would  come  to  an  end 
when  I  go  to  school  and  turn  into  a  big  per- 


son. 


'  >f 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

CONCLUSION.   PAULINE  AT  HOME. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  record  here  that  be- 
fore entering  on  her  new  life  and  becoming 
a  big  person  Pauline  stopped  for  a  day  and  a 
night  at  her  home  in  New  York.     She  found 
everything  the  same,  only  that  the  house  had 
a  queer  look  of  being  lonely  and  neglected, 
and  when  the  sunshine  forced  its  way  into 
the  rooms  it  seemed  to  lie  there  quietly,  as  it 
does  on  Sunday  mornings.     When  she' went 
out  upon  the  steps,  there  were  some  of  the 
street-boys,  who  greeted  her  with  a  kind  of 
mocking  pleasure,  as  if  she  were  something 
that  belonged  to  them.     This  rather  cheered 
her,  though  she  thought  with  swelling  heart 
that  it  would  be  long  before  they  could  call 
out  to  her  again. 

The  cook  reported  that  the  pigeon  was  in 
excellent  condition  and  faithful  to  his  old 
habit  of  coming  at  a  certain  hour  to  be  fed 

163  ' 


164 


Conclusion.    Pauline  at  Home. 


I'! 


'i' 


t\  ^ 


'•  1 


It'  • 


though  she  did  not  relate  that  he  often  had 
to  go  away  disappointed  when  she  and  her 
niece  were  taking  the  air.  Pauline  waited  till 
it  came,  and  caressed  it,  and  let  her  tears  fall, 
as  of  old,  while  she  confided  her  sorrows  to 
it  and  bade  it  farewell,  saying  solemnly  that 
she  would  never,  never  forget  it,  even  when  she 
was  big.  As  she  raised  her  head,  she  caught 
sight  of  the  cobbler  watching  from  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  a  ray  of  joy  lighting  up  his  worn 
face  like  a  sunbeam  through  clouds. 

"  I'm  glad,  glad  to  see  you  once  more, 
missy,"  eaid  he,  "and  many's  the  day  I've 
walked  past  the  house  hoping  for  a  sight  of 
you." 

Pauline  went  down  the  steps  and  held  out 
her  hand  to  him. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  too,  and  I 
haven't  forgotten  little  Mary,"  she  said.  "I 
often  thought  of  her  while  1  was  away." 

"  Did  you,  now  ? "  cried  the  man  with 
eagerness,  as  if  it  gladdened  him  to  know 
that  some  one  else  than  himself  had  given  a 
thought  to  that  vanished  presence.  "  I 
thought  mebbe  you'd  like  to  have  this,"  he 
said,  unfastening  a  little  parcel. 

Pauline  stood  by,  watching  with  interest. 


Conclusion,    Pauline  at  Home.         165 

her  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  package,  waiting 
to  see  what  it  contained,  it  was  a  rougli  and 
highly  colored  photograph  of  ''  little  Mary/' 
which  'he  put  tremblingly  into  her  hand. 

"  1  got  just  the  two/'  he  said,  "  there's  no 
one  else  to  care." 

Pauline  was  silent.  It  gave  her  a  strange 
feehng  to  see  this  representation,  rude  though 
it  was,  of  her  little  playmate. 

"  ril  keep  it  always,  even  when  I'm  big," 
she  said  solemnly. 

And  the  cobbler,  being  unable  to  speak 
from  t;motion,  squeezed  the  little  hand  she 
held  out  to  him  hard,  and  going  down  the 
street,  vanished  out  of  her  life.  But  Pauline 
kept  her  word.  She  put  away  that  poor 
photograph  among  her  most  precious  treas- 
ures, keeping  it  always,  in  memory  of  that  tiny 
friend  of  her  youth. 

Pauline  was  soon  glad  to  go  in,  for  the  air 
was  sharp  and  frosty,  and  she  felt  the  cold 
more  after  the  genial  climate  »he  had  been 
enjoying. 

^^  "  It's  winter  now  here,"  she  said  to  Rebecca, 
"  and  summer  where  mamma  is.  It  seems  like 
a  dream." 

Bebecca  was  very  kind  to  the  child.    In  her 


m  V: 


166 


Conclusion.    Pauline  at  Home. 


heart  she  was  fond  of  her  little  charge^,  and 
sorry  at  her  approaching  departure. 

"  It'll  soon  be  summer  now,"  she  said  by 
way  of  consolation,  "  and  you'll  be  coming 
home  again  for  the  holidays." 

"  It  will  never  be  the  same  again,"  said 
Pauline,  shaking  her  head. 

"  You're  the  most  outlandish  child,"  said 
Rebecca,  vexed  and  depressed  by  the  forebod- 
ing. "  What  difference  does  a  month  or  two 
make  ?  " 

Pauline  did  not  argue  the  matter.  But  she 
knew,  and  her  eyes  looking  out  of  the  nursery 
wmdow  seemed  trying  to  penetrate  the  future 
which  she  felt  was  beginning.  Then  she  asked 
Eebecca  to  get  her  pen  and  paper  and,  tired  as 
she  was,  she  wrote  a  little  letter,  in  a  childish, 
scrawling  hand,  to  her  mother,  telling  her 
about  the  journey,  about  the  arrival  home, 
and  the  simple  news  of  the  familiar  street. 
She  mentioned  Mr.  Thorpe's  beautiful  gift, 
but,  in  her  loyalty  to  her  little  dead  friend, 
she  dwelt  far  more  upon  the  gift  which  the 
cobbler  had  brought  her. 

Her  father  came  up  to  the  nursery  to  bid 
her  good-night,  and  was  all  kindness  and 
good-nature.     Then  she  lay  quietly  in  her 


Conclusion.    Pauline  at  Home.         167 

little  railed  bed,  thinking  of  her  mother's 
solitary  figure  on  the  veranda  of  the  hotel 
which  seemed  so  far  away,  and  of  the  Thorpes 
and  the  cobbler  and  little  Mary.  Just  as  she 
was  falling  asleep  she  thought  some  one  said 
to  her: 

"  To-night  you'll  come  to  an  end,  to-mor- 
row you'll  be  some  one  else."  And  as  a 
drowsy  hum  sounded  in  her  ears  the  voices  of 
the  fisher-folk,  crying:  "  God  bless  Pauline 
Archer." 


PRINTED  BY  BBNZIOBR  BROTHERS,   KKW  YORK. 


